


Imogen Potter

by Lyn_Laine



Series: The Four Fem Harrys Project [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Rewrite, F/M, Female Harry, Female Harry Potter, Floating Timeline, Slytherin Harry, Slytherin Harry Potter, Tom Riddle is Not Voldemort
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-21
Updated: 2017-12-10
Packaged: 2019-02-05 01:52:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 29,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12784389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyn_Laine/pseuds/Lyn_Laine
Summary: Four Fem Harrys. Four Houses. Some things change, and some things really don't. Imogen is the Slytherin Fem Harry. Fem Harry. Slytherin Harry. Part of the Four Fem Harrys Project. Harry Potter x Tom Riddle. Tom Riddle is Different from Voldemort.





	1. Imogen One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is the plan.
> 
> I am going to write four Fem Harrys. Each one, for me, fits the perfect profile of a different Hogwarts house. Each will also have a different name, so readers can differentiate better. Based on their house profiling, they will each also have different wand woods and Patronuses. In all other respects, however, they will just be Harry. I will take that starting canvas and create further differences with it within the text itself. These girls will be similar yet dissimilar to the Harry that you know, and also similar yet dissimilar to each other.
> 
> I will make four different stories and rotate through chapters for each girl, telling her full story with her at the helm. I call this the Four Fem Harrys Project.
> 
> This document you're reading right now is the Slytherin Fem Harry.
> 
> Please note that this is a full canon rewrite. All canon information and unchanged aspects will be included. I will also be attempting to make the story as relatable and floating timeline as possible.
> 
> The final pairing for each girl will be Tom Riddle, different from Voldemort, partly because one of the only things all four girls will have in common is a connection to the same person - but in his younger human self, before some of the corruption and most of the crimes, I think the interest and potential changes would be far more pronounced.

_Imogen One_

Nearly ten years had passed since the Dursleys had woken up to find their niece on the front step, but Privet Drive had hardly changed at all.

The sun rose on the same private gated estate home, the vast greyish house full of square lines and big windows, the vast, grand English garden that was conventional but not pleasant and sunshiny enough to be nauseating. It crept across the reddish-brown front door with its intricate glass paneling and its bronze number four. It crept through the big window, through the long silk curtains, and into the living room, which was called a sitting room and had a cozy, sun-room sort of feel to it, with lots of little tables and flowered armchairs for holding tea.

Everything almost exactly the same as it had been on the night when Mr Dursley had seen that fateful news report about the owls. Only the photographs on the mantel piece really showed how much time had passed. Ten years ago there had been lots of pictures of what looked like a large pink beach ball wearing different colored bonnets. But Dudley Dursley was no longer a baby, and now the photographs showed a large blond boy riding his first bicycle, on a carousel at the fair, playing a computer game with his father, being hugged and kissed by his mother.

There were little hints here and there of a small, dark-haired girl, but not enough to be noticeable. She was the perfect little daughter in a formal family dinner party portrait on one wall, but she didn’t exist in many other places. Mostly, where she did exist, she was playing with Dudley. It was obvious to anyone who truly looked that he was the only one in the family who really paid attention to her. They rode bikes and played games together, but no one else cared. 

Not that most people truly looked.

The small, dark-haired girl was Imogen Potter, the Dursleys’ niece, and she was asleep at the moment but not for long. Her Aunt Petunia was awake and she announced it to the world with an unholy, banshee-like shriek.

“Up! Get up! Now!”

Imogen woke with a start. Her aunt rapped on the door again.

“Up!” she screeched.

Imogen grabbed whatever was nearest her and chucked it as hard as she could at the door. “I’m getting up!” she screamed back.

“Scream at me like that again and I’ll have you make all of breakfast!”

“I was going to have to do that anyway! AAAHHH -!”

“Oh, you awful little -!” Aunt Petunia huffed, but she stalked away, her heels clacking. Imogen heard her walking toward the kitchen and then the sound of the frying pan being put on the stove. Imogen smirked at her aunt’s unseeable retreating figure, triumphant and rather darkly amused. Then she sighed and sat slowly upright, the more usual dread settling onto her features. She tried to remember the dream she had been having. It had been a good one. There had been a flying motorcycle in it. She had a funny feeling she’d had the same dream before.

Her aunt was back outside the door. “You are making all of breakfast, and I want you to hurry up so you can look after things,” she said brusquely.

“Yes, ma’am,” said Imogen, deadpan.

“And don’t you dare let anything burn. I want everything perfect on Duddy’s birthday.”

Imogen rolled her eyes, resisting the urge to be physically ill. “Kay,” she said without much enthusiasm. Prince Dudley was turning eleven today.

At last, her aunt left, heels clacking away up the stairs. 

Imogen got slowly out of bed and started looking for socks. She found a pair under her bed and, after pulling a spider off one of them, put them on. Imogen was used to spiders, because the cupboard under the stairs was full of them and that was where she slept. She’d been tragically orphaned at the grand old age of one, so an evil aunt and uncle had taken her in, to the cupboard she went, and from there the cliche didn’t really get much better.

But Dudley did pull his weight for her in certain areas. The only reason she had school friends, hobbies, nice things and clothes - it was all him. God knew it wasn’t her strict, repressive, chore-heavy aunt and uncle. They didn’t get her shit. But Dudley… well he was a spoiled brat with a big gang who loved getting into fights in school, but she was his smaller sister so she got special treatment and that was fine with her. Since they were in the same class, Dudley saved her from bullies in school, made it so that she could have friends and hobbies, and he bought her things with the money given to him by his parents. When Dudley threw a tantrum, he got anything he wanted, and that often worked in Imogen’s favor. Dudley was looked upon much more favorably as the son than Imogen was as the orphan niece.

It was mostly embarrassing to have to rely on Dudley or even her school-friends for everything. One day she’d promised herself she wouldn’t have to do that anymore.

But for now, she did rely, and she got nice things. Her cupboard was a small, narrow place, slanting downward into a little shadowy corner, and it did have a bare light bulb but with the lights off it felt oddly… safe. Enclosed, dark, and safe. Little spiders skittering around in the darkness.

She had decorated it. It was covered in little bunches of dried flowers. She had handwritten in notes in fancy, black ink cursive writing taped to the mirror by her bed, sometimes decorated by a spider or two. Her bedclothes had a delicate, intricate pattern, one of her few expensive luxuries. With dim lighting, it was so nice and soft and quiet in there. Clothes littered the floor.

Most of her space was taken up by her two main hobbies - music and art. She had a fascination with tattoo art, several books about it, but right now as a child what she loved was dark line, ink, or charcoal drawings. They decorated the walls of her space. And she had an endless, endless music listening collection and giant, good-quality headphones. More Dudley allowances. He intervened for her yet again.

She got dressed there in her cupboard. As she’d said, her clothes were mostly bought by Dudley and her school friends, and she was allowed to make her own choices. Some important pieces to Imogen’s wardrobe included high heels, ripped leggings, long coats with big black buttons, silver earrings, a ticking expensive wristwatch, shirts with lacy necklines, and monochrome fabrics with careful accents.

Imogen had naturally thick and wild shiny black hair, almond shaped bright green eyes, a thin friendly face, a tiny pixie-like body, dimpled knees, and glasses. So naturally, she had to twist that to her perfect effect. 

Her hair was usually either tied up in a smooth top knot or, using her straightening iron, she made her hair long, straightened, and sleek all around her face. Her glasses were in a sly cat-eye shape.

And put all together, that completed her look. One outfit could be high heels, ripped leggings, a long coat with big black buttons, and silver earrings. She could put her hair up in a top knot. Another outfit could be a shimmery monochrome fabric shirt with careful accents like a lacy neckline, long sleek straight hair, and her ticking expensive wristwatch. Of course, with her ever-present cat-eye glasses always there.

There was one more physical detail to Imogen Potter: a thin scar on her forehead that was shaped like a bolt of lightning. She was rather self conscious about it, she’d had it as long as she could remember, and the first question she could ever remember asking her Aunt Petunia was how she’d gotten it.

“In the car crash when your parents died,” her Aunt Petunia had said, “and don’t ask question.”

 _Don’t ask questions_ \- the first rule for a quiet life with the Dursleys.

When Imogen was all ready for the day, she went down the stairs and down the hall into the kitchen. It was one long room almost like a hall, and the Dursleys certainly thought of it that way. On one end, the white marble tiled and bold black accented kitchen, and on the other end the manufactured wood table. That table was today almost hidden beneath all Dudley’s birthday presents. It looked as though Dudley had gotten the new computer he wanted, not to mention the second television and the racing bike.

Uncle Vernon entered the kitchen as Imogen was turning over the bacon. He looked her over, harrumphed disapprovingly, and heaved himself down into a seat at the kitchen table, ignoring her. Imogen bristled. She wasn’t sure which she hated more - the disapproving harrumph or the refusal to help.

She amused herself by imagining Uncle Vernon as a kind of winded rhinoceros, massive, purple, and heaving, wearing a black formal suit like something out of a surrealist political comedy. 

Aunt Petunia was his polar opposite - bony body, giraffe neck, horse face. She wore chiffons of hair and ugly dresses she thought were pretty. They were both so pretentious - gossipy, climbing, and pretentious.

Imogen was frying eggs by the time Dudley arrived in the kitchen with his mother. Dudley was a strange combination of huge and hulking and scowling, and chubby with smooth blond hair and blue eyes and a pink face, so that no one was sure whether to laugh at him or be shit-all terrified of him. He could wrestle and box in addition to his video game addiction, so after he beat a couple of people up everyone usually went for the terror. He was a nice guy to have on your side on the school playground.

He also let his mother dress him, but when they didn’t harass her Imogen wasn’t one to judge.

Imogen put the plates of egg and bacon on the table, smiling at Dudley as she put a slightly better made portion at his place. Dudley beamed back up at her. People who treated Imogen well got special privileges, and she did genuinely enjoy being kind to people. She sometimes saved smaller kids at school from Dudley’s fists, and the younger children at St Grogory’s had begun to see her as this weird, terrifying kind of savior. In her own straight-backed, quiet, proud and teasing way she could have quite a kind smile when she wanted to.

Dudley had begun counting his presents. His face fell.

“Thirty-six,” he said, looking up at his mother and father. “That’s two less than last year.”

“Darling, you haven’t counted Auntie Marge’s present, see, it’s here, under this big one from Mummy and Daddy.”

“All right, thirty-seven then,” said Dudley, going red in the face. Imogen, who could see a huge Dudley tantrum coming on, quickly pulled her plate into her lap in case Dudley turned the table over.

Aunt Petunia obviously scented danger, too, because she said quickly, “And we’ll buy you another _two_ presents while we’re out today. How’s that, popkin? _Two_ more presents. Is that all right?”

Dudley thought for a moment. It looked like hard work. Imogen decided to help him out. “Thirty-seven,” she spoke up, and Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon glared but she had a point to make. She set her two earrings on top of the pile. “Plus two,” she added.

“Oh…” Dudley frowned at the earrings. “Thirty-nine!” he realized, brightening.

Imogen gave a secretive smile and put the earrings back in her ears.

“All right then,” said Dudley, sitting down heavily and grabbing the nearest parcel. “That’s fine.”

Uncle Vernon chuckled.

“Little tyke wants his money’s worth, just like his father. ‘Atta boy, Dudley!” He ruffled Dudley’s hair.

At that moment the telephone rang and Aunt Petunia went to answer it while Imogen and Uncle Vernon watched Dudley unwrap the racing bike, a video camera, a remote controlled aeroplane, sixteen new video games, and a movie player. He was ripping the paper off a gold wristwatch when Aunt Petunia came back from the telephone, looking both angry and worried.

“Bad news, Vernon,” she said. “Mrs Figg’s broken her leg. She can’t take her.” She jerked her head in Imogen’s direction.

Dudley brightened and he and Imogen shared a hopeful glance. Every year on Dudley’s birthday, his parents took him and a friend out for the day, to adventure parks, hamburger restaurants, or the movies. Unless Dudley could swing letting Imogen come along, every year Imogen was left behind with Mrs Figg, a mad old lady who lived two streets away. Imogen hated it there, mostly because it was hideously boring. The whole dark, smelly house was crawling with loudly meowing cats, there were weird stains everywhere like someone had been murdered against the sofa cushions, and Mrs Figg always sat Imogen right in the middle of the biggest stain and showed her every single cat photograph she had ever owned.

Dudley hadn’t been able to swing letting Imogen come along this year, so she had been privately dreading Mrs Figg’s house even more than she usually dreaded her life with the Dursleys.

“Now what?” said Aunt Petunia, looking furiously at Imogen as though she’d planned this.

“Well obviously,” Imogen drawled, sitting back, “the solution is to find Mrs Figg some sort of medical specialist who can laser-heal broken bones that can be seen on short notice and take a plane halfway across the country to -”

“Never mind, I should never have looked at you,” Aunt Petunia sighed, exasperated, and turned back to her husband.

“We could phone Marge,” Uncle Vernon suggested.

“Don’t be silly, Vernon, she hates the girl.”

The Dursleys often spoke about Imogen like this, as though she wasn’t there - or rather, as though she was something very nasty that couldn’t understand them, like a slug. And there were three things Imogen secretly - very secretly, her guard and defenses always up - dreaded most in life: Being ignored, being laughed at, and true and total isolation.

“Don’t ignore me!” she snapped, standing, losing it for a moment.

“Well I don’t know what to do!” Aunt Petunia snapped back. “My friend Yvonne is on vacation in Majorca. I can’t just foist you off on some other unsuspecting family with children for an entire day. I can’t leave you home alone or - I don’t know, you’d blow up the house or something!”

“Yeah, you got me, that was my secret plan all along.”

“Shut up!”

It was a pity she wouldn’t get to stay home alone. They let her sometimes, in good moods. She usually put on her giant headphones to a nice, specially selected mix of music and just drew for hours out in the living room.

“I suppose we could take her to the zoo,” said Aunt Petunia slowly, “and leave her in the car…”

“That car’s new, she’s not sitting in it alone…”

Dudley began to cry loudly. In fact, he wasn’t really crying - it had been years since he’d really cried - but he knew that if he screwed up his face and wailed, his mother would give him anything he wanted.

“Mummy, I want… her…. to… come,” he yelled between huge, pretend sobs.

It should have been pathetic, but somehow it never was. Watching Dudley work his parents was like watching the finest work of art.

“Oh, my poor, sweet, sensitive little boy!” Aunt Petunia cried, flinging her arms around him. Dudley shot Imogen a secretive smile through the gap in his mother’s arms. She couldn’t help but smirk a little bit wryly back.

Just then, the doorbell rang - “Oh, good Lord, they’re here!” said Aunt Petunia frantically - and a moment later Dudley’s best friend, Piers Polkiss, walked in with his mother. Piers was a skinny little kid with stringy brown arms and a grin that hid true, clever viciousness. He, like Dudley, fought dirty to the end, usually holding people’s arms behind their backs while Dudley hit them. Dudley stopped pretending to cry at once.

Half an hour later, Imogen was sitting in the back of the Dursleys’ dark leather seated, shiny car. She was smirking, shoving, and joking crassly around with the guys, surprising friendliness in her expression. She was officially on the way to the zoo for the first time in her life. Her aunt and uncle hadn’t been able to think of anything else to do with her, and anyway Dudley had asked.

But before they’d left, Uncle Vernon had taken Imogen aside into the living room.

“I’m warning you,” he had said, putting his large purple face right up close to Imogen’s as she glared back, narrow-eyed, her nose slightly wrinkled in disgust, “I’m warning you now, girl - any funny business, anything at all - and you’ll be in that cupboard from now until Christmas.”

“I’m not going to do anything,” said Imogen softly. “I’m not that stupid.” And at last Uncle Vernon broke her gaze and brushed past her with another harrumph.

He didn’t believe her. No one ever did.

The problem was, strange things often happened around Imogen, and it was just no good telling the Dursleys she didn’t make them happen. 

Once, Aunt Petunia, tired of Imogen coming back from the barber’s looking as though she hadn’t been at all, equally tired of Uncle Vernon complaining about it, had taken a pair of kitchen scissors and cut Imogen’s hair so short she was almost bald, except for her bangs, which she left “to hide that horrible scar.” Dudley had teased Imogen, Imogen had snapped back defensively, they’d had an argument, and Imogen had gone to bed in angry tears, secretly terrified of being laughed at in school the next day. Next morning, however, she had gotten up to find her hair exactly as it had been before Aunt Petunia had sheared it off. She had been given a week in her cupboard for this, even though she had tried to explain that she _couldn’t_ explain how it had grown back so quickly.

Another time, back before Dudley and her friends had started buying her clothes, Aunt Petunia had been trying to force Imogen into a revolting secondhand grey dress. The harder she tried to pull it over Imogen’s head, the smaller it seemed to become, until finally it might have fitted a hand puppet but certainly wouldn’t fit Imogen. Aunt Petunia had decided it must have shrunk in the wash and, to her great relief, Imogen wasn’t punished.

On the other hand, she’d gotten into terrible trouble over that bully incident at school two years ago. A big, older bully had cornered Imogen on the playground, and even as Dudley ran over he’d _pushed_ her - and suddenly, crippling purple and green spots that looked like rot appeared all over his body, including his outstretched hands. A very angry letter had been sent home from Imogen’s headmistress. Imogen wasn’t sure how she’d done that, either, but all she’d been able to do was shout at Uncle Vernon through the locked door of her cupboard.

But today, nothing was going to go wrong. When she was joking around with Dudley and Piers, like when she was with her own friends or her own hobbies, everything was right in the world.

While he drove, Uncle Vernon complained to Aunt Petunia. He liked to complain about things. People at work, Imogen, the council, Imogen, the bank, and Imogen were just a few of his favorite subjects. Aunt Petunia, the good housewife, listened and Uncle Vernon, the big corporate man of the house, complained. This morning, it was motorcycles.

“... roaring along like maniacs, the young hoodlums,” he said, as a motorcycle overtook them.

“Yes, that’s what I think whenever I see motorcycle rider,” Imogen announced sarcastically, breaking temporarily from her conversation with Dudley and Piers. “I think young hoodlum.”

“Shut up!” Uncle Vernon snapped from the front.

Imogen subsided, smirking, as Dudley and Piers snickered. She’d decided not to mention the flying motorcycle dream; her poor uncle might have a coronary. If there was one thing the Dursleys hated even more than her asking questions, it was her talking about anything acting in a way it shouldn’t, no matter if it was in a dream or even a cartoon - they seemed to think she might get dangerous ideas. She was only allowed art and music under Dudley protection.

It was a very sunny Saturday and the zoo was crowded with families; they swarmed toward the big gate entrance with the carved animals surrounding it. The Dursleys bought Dudley and Piers large chocolate ice creams at the entrance and then, because the ice cream van lady had looked disbelieving when Dudley started to break out his pocket book, Uncle Vernon reluctantly bought Imogen a small lemon sherbet twist ice cream.

Imogen had a very good morning. She, Dudley, and Piers enjoyed exploring the winding clay-like roads and little bridges, looking at all the enclosures of animals eagerly. Dudley and Piers were starting to get bored with the animals by lunchtime, though Imogen could have gone for another few hours. They ate lunch in the zoo restaurant, which was full of fake plastic trees with swinging monkeys and jungle sounds from hidden speakers, and aside from Dudley having a tantrum that made Imogen roll her eyes because his Knickerbocker Glory didn’t have enough ice cream on top, that went fine as well.

After lunch they went to the reptile house. It was cool and dark in there, with lit windows all along the walls. The dark brickwork curved around in a sort of C shape, glowing glass tanks full of reptiles laid into the bricks. Behind the glass, all sorts of lizards and snakes were crawling and slithering over bits of wood and stone. Dudley and Piers wanted to see huge, poisonous cobras and thick, man-crushing pythons, mostly because they were boys. Dudley quickly found the largest snake in the place. It could have wrapped its body twice around Uncle Vernon’s car and crushed it into a trash can, but at the moment it didn’t look in the mood. In fact, it was fast asleep.

Dudley stood with his nose pressed against the glass, staring at the glistening brown coils.

“Make it move,” he whined at his father. Uncle Vernon tapped on the glass, but the snake didn’t budge.

“Do it again,” Dudley ordered. Uncle Vernon rapped the glass smartly with his knuckles, but the snake just snoozed on.

“This is boring,” Dudley moaned. He shuffled away.

Imogen moved in front of the tank and looked intently at the snake. She wouldn’t have been surprised if it had died of boredom itself, no company except stupid people drumming their fingers on the glass, trying to disturb it all day long. It was worse than having a cupboard as a bedroom, where the only visitor was Aunt Petunia hammering on the door to wake you up; at least she had plenty of other places she could visit.

The snake suddenly opened its beady eyes. Slowly, very slowly, it raised its head until its eyes were on a level with Imogen’s.

_It winked._

Imogen stared. Then she looked quickly around to see if anyone was watching. They weren’t. She looked back at the snake and winked, too.

The snake jerked its head toward Uncle Vernon and Dudley, then raised its eyes to the ceiling. It gave Imogen a look that said quite plainly:

_“I get that all the time.”_

“I know,” Imogen murmured through the glass, though she wasn’t sure the snake could hear her. “It must be really annoying.”

The snake nodded vigorously.

“Where do you come from, anyway?” Imogen asked.

The snake jabbed its tail at a little sign next to the glass. Imogen peered at it.

Boa Constrictor, Brazil.

“Was it nice there?”

The boa constrictor jabbed its tail at the sign again and Imogen read on: This specimen was bred in the zoo. “Oh, I see - so you’ve never been to Brazil?”

As the snake shook its head, a deafening shout behind Imogen made both of them jump. “DUDLEY! MR DURSLEY! COME AND LOOK AT THIS SNAKE! YOU WON’T _BELIEVE_ WHAT IT’S DOING!”

Dudley came waddling toward them as fast as he could.

“Out of the way, you,” he told his surrogate sister bluntly, and Imogen knew better than to cross that look without good reason, so she stepped neatly out of the way. Piers and Dudley leaned right up close to the glass, oohing and aahing.

The boa constrictor hissed irritably at them as it sank down, slowly, into its former torpor. Imogen felt genuine pity for it.

She thought she was in the clear. But then they were all piling back in Uncle Vernon’s car in the zoo parking lot at the end of the day, chattering on. And Piers calmed down enough to say, “Imogen was talking to it, weren’t you, Imogen?”

His eyes widened as she made the cut motion across her throat and mouthed glaring furiously, _I will kill you._

But it was too late. Uncle Vernon had heard.

He waited until Piers was safely out of the house before starting in on Imogen. But Dudley quickly stepped between them. “She did it for me!” he pleaded. “She was just talking to the snake, hoping it would move for me!”

Not for the first time, Imogen felt deep loyalty for her cousin.

“... Fine,” Uncle Vernon bit out. “Tonight and tomorrow in the cupboard. No meals. She’s let out the next morning.”

“But Dad -!”

“It was going to be two weeks with one meal a day!” Uncle Vernon thundered in the darkened sophisticated lounge area, and his eyes flashed in Imogen’s direction. _“Go!”_

Then he collapsed into an armchair, and Aunt Petunia had to run and get him a large brandy.

-

Imogen lay in her dark cupboard much later, staring at her watch. It was her most important, practical request from Dudley. She used it during cupboard punishments to figure out when the Dursleys would be in bed, then sneak out and steal food.

This was not any manifestation of Imogen’s true nature. This was a survival mechanism. She would keep plastic bags of food from stealing nights underneath her bed during cupboard punishments.

She had other things like that. A bucket in the corner in case she needed to pee outside of her two allotted times outside each day. A light bulb that always worked so that she had light to draw and listen to music. Bug spray for the particularly nasty spiders. The worst was when they got into her hair at night.

Survival mechanisms.

She’d lived with the Dursleys almost ten years, ten miserable years, as long as she could remember, ever since she’d been a baby and her parents had died in that car crash. She couldn’t remember being in the car when her parents had died. Sometimes, when she strained her memory during long hours in her cupboard, she came up with a strange vision: a blinding flash of green light and a burning pain on her forehead. This, she supposed, was the car crash, though she couldn’t imagine where all the green light came from. She couldn’t remember her parents at all. Her aunt and uncle never spoke about them, and of course she was forbidden to ask questions. There were no photographs of them in the house.

When she had been younger, Imogen had dreamed and dreamed of some unknown relation coming to take her away, had wandered countless streets just trying to get away from home, but it had changed nothing and nothing had never happened; the Dursleys were her only family. Yet sometimes she thought (or maybe hoped) that strangers in the street seemed to know her. Very strange strangers they were, too. A tiny old man in a violet top hat had bowed to her once while out shopping with Aunt Petunia and Dudley. After asking Imogen furiously if she knew the man, Aunt Petunia had rushed them out of the shop without buying anything. A wild-looking old woman dressed all in green had waved merrily at her once on a bus. A bald man in a very long, purple coat had actually taken her hand and kissed it in the street the other day, like she was a princess, and then walked away without a word.

The weirdest thing about all these people was the way they seemed to vanish the second Imogen tried to get a closer look.


	2. Imogen Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies, but for this chapter and the next, it was hard to credibly establish really clear differences between girls or from canon. I tried to make differences where I felt I rationally could. The first part of the chapter is more obviously different than the second part. Otherwise, for now just enjoy, and if it's any consolation once we hit the Diagon Alley chapter, differences start to get much bigger. By the time you hit the Hogwarts Express you will almost be reading four totally separate stories. They will never truly become the same again afterward.
> 
> For now, just enjoy the story and the subtle differences. That's what these first three chapters are all about.

_Imogen Two_

School ended and the summer holidays began. Imogen spent as much of her time as possible outside with friends. Meanwhile, Dudley celebrated the beginning of summer in his own way. By the end of the second week, he had already broken his new video camera, crashed his remote controlled aeroplane, and, first time out on his racing bike, knocked down old Mrs Figg as she crossed Privet Drive on her crutches.

Dudley’s gang took over the Dursley house, visiting it every single day, so she saw them a lot. They were all friendly to her, as Dudley’s sister, but like Dudley most were rather big, dull fighters - Piers, Dennis, Malcolm, and Gordon.

When September came, Imogen would be going off to secondary school and, for the first time in her life, she wouldn’t be with Dudley. Dudley had been accepted at Uncle Vernon’s old private school, Smeltings. Piers Polkiss was going there too. Imogen, on the other hand, was going to Stonewall High, the local public school.

“I’m worried about you. I won’t be there and it’s supposed to be a pretty rough place,” said Dudley, his eyes narrowed, sizing her up as if seeing if she could handle her new school as they stood on the staircase one afternoon.

Imogen grinned openly, cheerful, good-natured mocking in her eyes. “Come on, Dudley,” she said playfully. “You won’t be able to protect me all my life, you know.” But Dudley didn’t look convinced.

Imogen was, after all, just a little girl.

One day in July, Aunt Petunia took Dudley to London to buy school uniforms, leaving Imogen at Mrs Figg’s. Mrs Figg wasn’t as bad as usual. It turned out she’d broken her leg tripping over one of her cats, and she didn’t seem quite as fond of them as before. She let Imogen watch television and gave her a bit of chocolate cake that tasted as though she’d had it for several years.

That evening, Aunt Petunia handed Imogen some plain grey skirt and jacket uniforms. “Your new school uniforms,” she said brusquely, placing the neatly folded pile in Imogen’s arms in the front hall near the cupboard. Imogen stared back, guarded. “Put them away and come out to the living room.”

Dudley was assigned to parade around the living room for the family in his brand-new uniform. Smeltings’ boys wore maroon tailcoats, orange knickerbockers, and flat straw hats called boaters. They also carried knobbly sticks, used for hitting each other while the teachers weren’t looking. This was supposed to be good training for later life.

As he looked at Dudley in his new knickerbockers, Uncle Vernon said gruffly that it was the proudest moment of his life. Aunt Petunia burst into tears and said she couldn’t believe it was her ickle Dudleykins, he looked so handsome and grown-up. Imogen didn’t trust herself to speak. Holding in that instinctive jeering, sarcastic comment was hard enough as it was.

-

The next morning, everyone sat down to breakfast. Uncle Vernon opened his newspaper as usual and Dudley banged his Smelting stick, which he carried everywhere, on the table.

They heard the click of the mail slot and flop of letters on the doormat.

“Get the mail, Dudley,” said Uncle Vernon from behind his paper.

“Make Imogen get it.”

“Get the mail, Imogen.”

“Make Dudley get it.”

“Poke her with your Smelting stick, Dudley.”

Imogen dodged the Smelting stick and went to get the mail, sighing and taking the whole thing rather matter-of-factly. Three things lay on the doormat: a postcard from Uncle Vernon’s sister Marge, who was vacationing on the Isle of Wight, a brown envelope that looked like a bill, and a letter for Imogen.

Imogen picked it up and looked it over idly. She had gotten letters and postcards before, from school friends. But this letter seemed odd. First there was the address:

_Miss I. Potter_

_The Cupboard under the Stairs_

_4 Privet Drive_

_Little Whinging_

_Surrey_

The envelope was thick and heavy, made of yellowish parchment, and the address was written in emerald-green ink. There was no stamp and no return address.

Turning the envelope over, Imogen saw a purple wax seal bearing a coat of arms; a lion, an eagle, a badger, and a snake surrounding a large letter H. _Draco Dormiens Nunquam Titillandus,_ said tiny Latin letters in a ribbon around the animals.

“Hurry up, girl!” shouted Uncle Vernon from the kitchen. “What are you doing, checking for letter bombs?” He chuckled at his own joke.

Imogen snuck a glance in his direction, and then decided to open the letter before he could get to it. Her uncle always read her mail before her, and it was infuriating and controlling. There was no reason she herself couldn’t know the contents of this interesting letter first, right?

She slit the envelope open, took out a piece of heavy parchment paper, started to unfold it - 

And it was jerked sharply out of her hand from behind. She whirled around and gasped. Uncle Vernon was standing there, his expression veiled.

“Have a letter?” he asked mockingly, smirking. He grabbed the rest of the mail from her hand as well and walked back into the dining room with all of it, as she stood there in the hall, fuming. Finally, she followed him back in reluctantly as he heaved himself down into a seat.

Uncle Vernon ripped open the bill, snorted in disgust, and flipped over the postcard. “Marge’s ill,” he informed Aunt Petunia. “Ate a funny whelk. Well, all right, girl, let’s see your letter.”

Uncle Vernon took up the slit envelope, shook the parchment letter open with one hand and glanced at it. His face went from red to green faster than a set of traffic lights. And it didn’t stop there. Within seconds it was the grayish white of old porridge.

“P-P-Petunia!” he gasped.

“What is it? What’s going on?” said Dudley eagerly. He tried to grab the letter to read it, but Uncle Vernon held it high out of his reach. Aunt Petunia took it curiously and read the first line. For a moment it looked as though she might faint. She clutched her throat and made a choking noise.

“Vernon! Oh my goodness - Vernon!”

They stared at each other, seeming to have forgotten that Imogen and Dudley were still in the room. Dudley wasn’t used to being ignored. He gave his father a sharp tap on the head with his Smelting stick.

“I want to read that letter,” he said loudly.

“Technically, it’s my letter,” said Imogen, calculating in her head, curious. “I believe I get first look?” She lifted her head.

“Get out, both of you,” croaked Uncle Vernon, stuffing the letter back inside its envelope.

Imogen frowned. “... No,” she said, watching her uncle unerringly. Something weird was definitely going on here, and she wanted to know what it was. This was the first letter the Dursleys ever hadn’t wanted her to see - which, ironically, probably made it the one most worth reading.

What didn’t they want her to know?

“Let me see the letter!” demanded Dudley.

“OUT!” roared Uncle Vernon, and he took both Imogen and Dudley by the scruffs of their necks and threw them into the carpeted hall, slamming the kitchen door behind them. Dudley and Imogen looked at each other - and Dudley motioned Imogen to look in the kitchen door keyhole, closer to the staircase, perhaps feeling she deserved it more. She gave him a grateful nod. Then he lay flat on his stomach to listen at the crack between door and floor.

“Vernon,” Aunt Petunia was saying in a quivering voice, her back to Imogen in a kitchen table chair, “look at the address - how could they possibly know where she sleeps? You don’t think they’re watching the house?”

“Watching - spying - might be following us,” muttered Uncle Vernon wildly. He was pacing up and down the kitchen, his face an even deeper shade of purple than usual, his temple working and his tiny dark eyes roving around madly as he thought hard.

“But what should we do, Vernon? Should we write back? Tell them we don’t want -”

Uncle Vernon paced silently.

“No,” he said finally. “No, we’ll ignore it. If they don’t get an answer… Yes, that’s best… we won’t do anything…”

“But -”

“I’m not having one in the house, Petunia! Especially not one of those nasty women! Didn’t we swear when we took her in we’d stamp out that dangerous nonsense?”

-

That evening when he got back from work, Uncle Vernon did something he’d never done before; he visited Imogen in her cupboard.

“Where’s my letter?” said Imogen quickly, the moment Uncle Vernon had squeezed through the door. “Who’s writing to me?”

“No one. It was addressed to you by mistake,” said Uncle Vernon shortly. “I have burned it.”

“... A mistake,” said Imogen skeptically. “It had my cupboard on it… and it was a mistake.”

“SILENCE!” yelled Uncle Vernon, and a couple of spiders fell from the ceiling. He took a few deep breaths and forced his face into a smile, which looked quite painful.

“Er - yes, Imogen - about this cupboard. Your aunt and I have been thinking… you’re really getting a bit big for it… we think it might be nice if you moved into Dudley’s second bedroom.”

“Why?” said Imogen, her eyes narrowed as she watched her uncle closely.

“Don’t ask questions!” snapped her uncle. “Take this stuff upstairs, now.”

The Dursleys’ house had four bedrooms: one for Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia, one for visitors (usually Uncle Vernon’s sister, Marge), one where Dudley slept, and one where Dudley kept all the toys and things that wouldn’t fit into his first bedroom. Imogen moved everything she owned from the cupboard to this room. As she moved upstairs, Dudley was nice enough to move some of his things downstairs; he was clearing his old toys away for her and putting them in the basement, puffing with effort as he shoved them down the staircase. 

Nearly everything Imogen passed on her way up was broken. There was the month-old video camera. There was the small, working tank that Dudley had once driven over the next door neighbor’s dog. There was Dudley’s first-ever television set, which he’d put his foot through when his favorite program had been canceled. There was the large birdcage, which had once held a parrot that Dudley had swapped at school for an air rifle, which also came from the second bedroom with its end all bent because Dudley had sat on it. Many, many books also came down the staircase and were consigned to the basement. They were the only things that looked as though they’d never been touched.

Meanwhile, everything Imogen owned was still in near perfect working order, and the books she owned were much more well worn. She thought it was because she had none of her own money and she wasn’t allowed much - so she’d learned to be careful, and to treasure what she had. Her bunches of dried flowers were taped to random places on walls and decorated spare shelves. Her intricately embroidered bedcover went on her bed. Her dark drawings covered the walls, her drawing materials went on the desk, her music decorated her new space, and her giant good-quality headphones were also put on the desk. Her little handwritten cursive ink notes were taped to the inside door wardrobe mirror, which was left open. Books full of tattoo art went on a couple of higher shelves. She put her clothes and things in the wardrobe past the mirror, her heels and ripped leggings, her long big-buttoned black jackets and her monochrome shimmering fabric lacy neckline accented shirts, her hair ties and her straightening iron, her silver earrings. There was also a large bed, a bedside table with a repaired alarm clock and a lamp for her glasses and her expensive watch, and a desk beside the curtained upstairs window.

Imogen sighed and stretched out on the bed, unusually somber. Yesterday she’d have given anything to be up here. Today she’d rather be back in her cupboard with that letter than up here without it.

-

Next morning at breakfast, everything was rather quiet. Dudley seemed unusually hesitant around the dark moods of the rest of his family. Imogen was thinking somewhat bitterly about this time yesterday. Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia kept looking at each other darkly.

When the mail arrived, Uncle Vernon, who seemed to be trying to be nice to Imogen, made Dudley go and get it. They heard him banging things with his Smelting stick all the way down the hall. Then he shouted, “There’s another one! ‘Miss I. Potter, The Smallest Bedroom, 4 Privet Drive -’”

With a strangled cry, Uncle Vernon leapt from his seat and ran down the hall. Imogen stayed in her seat primly. She was curious to see the letter, not full of testosterone and stupid. She and Aunt Petunia sat there, exasperated and deadpan, as they heard Uncle Vernon and Dudley fighting and wrestling each other for the letter in the hall, accompanied by the frequent bangs of the Smelting stick.

At last, Uncle Vernon seemed to have won, because they heard his heaving gasps for breath, the fighting ceased, and then they heard him wheeze, “Dudley - go - just go.”

Imogen sat there in her seat, the cogs in her head turning behind her sharp eyes. Someone knew she had moved out of her cupboard and they seemed to know she hadn’t received her first letter. Surely that meant they’d try again? And this time she’d make sure they didn’t fail. She had a plan.

-

The repaired alarm clock rang at six o’clock the next morning. Imogen turned it off quickly and dressed silently. She mustn’t wake the Dursleys. She stole downstairs without turning on any of the lights.

She was going to wait for the postman on the corner of Privet Drive and get the letters for number four first, but she wasn’t stupid. Uncle Vernon would probably be sleeping at the foot of the front door; he was just that much of a control freak.

So instead, she crept carefully and silently in the darkness past the front door and to a living room window. She would have just dropped from her bedroom window, but a two-story fall was a long way for a kid.

She grabbed the latch of the window, unlocked it, and began to ease the window open, poking one thin, legging-clad leg out - 

“AAARRRGGGHHH!”

Uncle Vernon had been asleep at the foot of the front door; he suddenly charged forward to stop her. In a panic, Imogen tried to shove herself fully out the window and she actually made it halfway out before Uncle Vernon yanked her back into the living room, wrestling to hold her down as she kicked and screamed, and slammed the living room window shut again.

Lights clicked on upstairs as Uncle Vernon managed to shove a stumbling Imogen back into the entryway.

There was indeed a purple sleeping bag at the foot of the front door. Uncle Vernon had clearly been trying to prevent Imogen from doing exactly what she had tried to do. And lying there on the sleeping bag now, shoved through the mail slot, were three letters addressed in emerald green ink.

Uncle Vernon ripped the letters into pieces before her eyes, shouted at her for about half an hour, and then told her to go and make him a cup of tea.

Uncle Vernon didn’t go to work that day. He stayed at home and nailed up the mail slot. 

“See,” he explained to Aunt Petunia through a mouthful of nails, “if they can’t _deliver_ then they’ll just give up.”

“I’m not sure that’ll work, Vernon.”

“Oh, these people’s minds work in strange ways, Petunia, they’re not like you and me,” said Uncle Vernon, trying to knock in a nail with the piece of fruitcake Aunt Petunia had just brought him.

-

On Friday, no less than twelve letters arrived for Imogen. As they couldn’t go through the mail slot they had been pushed under the door, slotted through the sides, and a few even forced through the small window in one of the bathrooms. 

Uncle Vernon stayed at home again. After burning all the letters, he got out a hammer and nails and boarded up the front and back doors so no one could get out. He hummed “Tiptoe Through the Tulips” as he worked and jumped at small noises.

Imogen wasn’t sure who these so-called nasty women were, but Uncle Vernon must not want her to be one pretty badly.

-

On Saturday, things began to get out of hand. Twenty-four letters to Imogen found their way into the house, rolled up and hidden inside each of the two dozen eggs that their very confused milkman had handed Aunt Petunia through the living room window. While Uncle Vernon made furious telephone calls to the post office and the dairy, trying to find someone to complain to, Aunt Petunia shredded the letters in her food processor.

-

On Sunday morning, Uncle Vernon sat down at the breakfast table looking tired and rather ill, but happy.

“No post on Sundays,” he reminded them cheerfully as he spread marmalade on his newspapers, “no damn letters today -”

Something came whizzing down the red brick kitchen chimney near the table as he spoke and caught him sharply in the back of the head. Next moment, thirty or forty letters came pelting out of the fireplace like bullets. The Dursleys ducked, but Imogen leapt into the air trying to catch one -

“Out! OUT!”

Uncle Vernon seized Imogen around the waist and threw her into the hall. When Aunt Petunia and Dudley had run out with their arms over their faces, Uncle Vernon slammed the door shut. They could hear the letters still streaming into the room, bouncing off the walls and floor.

“That does it,” said Uncle Vernon, trying to speak calmly but pulling great tufts out of his mustache at the same time. “I want you all back here in five minutes ready to leave. We’re going away. Just pack some clothes. No arguments!”

He looked so dangerous with half his mustache missing that no one dared argue. Ten minutes later they had wrenched their way through the boarded-up doors and were in the car, speeding toward the highway. Dudley was sniffling in the back seat; his father had hit him round the head for holding them up while he tried to pack his television, movie player, and computer into his sports bag.

Imogen reached out and gave Dudley’s hand a gentle squeeze, still staring straight ahead with deadly precision. He looked over at her and his sniffles quieted a little.

They drove. And they drove. Even Aunt Petunia didn’t dare ask where they were going. Every now and then Uncle Vernon would take a sharp turn and drive in the opposite direction for a while.

“Shake ‘em off… shake ‘em off,” he would mutter whenever he did this.

They didn’t stop to eat or drink all day. By nightfall Dudley was howling, and try as she might, not even Imogen could pacify him. Dudley had never had such a bad day in his life. He was hungry, he’d missed five television programs he’d wanted to see, and he’d never gone so long without blowing up an alien on one of his video games.

Imogen was used to all three of those things, most particularly having suffered cupboard punishments but in general never being treated as well, so she wasn’t sure what to say. She wanted to call Dudley whiny, but her loyalty to him was too deep.

Uncle Vernon stopped at last outside a gloomy-looking hotel on the outskirts of a big city. The city was a dark little place full of hunched black building shadows, boarded-up windows, and “Stay Out” signs. The hotel seemed taller than itself, looming over them, with an eerie neon sign above its bottom floor like something straight out of a horror movie. Dudley and Imogen shared a room with twin beds and damp, musty sheets, a tiny room that made you want to check everything for mold, bed bugs, and remnants from the last visitors. Dudley snored, exhausted after his trying day, but Imogen stayed awake, sitting on the windowsill, staring down at the red lights of passing cars through the blurry glass, looking out over the great city street full of shady-looking figures passing by with hunched shoulders.

Imogen wondered about the letters and whoever was sending them…

-

They ate stale cornflakes and cold, tinned tomatoes on toast for breakfast the next morning. They had just finished when the owner of the hotel came over to their table.

“Excuse me, but it was one of you Miss I. Potter? Only I got about a hundred of these at the front desk.”

She held up a letter so they could read the green ink address:

_Miss I. Potter_

_Room 17_

_Railview Hotel_

_Cokeworth_

Imogen made a grab for the letter but Uncle Vernon knocked her hand out of the way. The woman stared.

“I’ll take them,” said Uncle Vernon, standing up quickly and following her from the falsely cheerful dining room with its tiny white-tablecloth tables, full of people with clinking silverware who had no idea what was secretly happening three tables away from them.

-

“Wouldn’t it be better just to go home, dear?” Aunt Petunia suggested timidly, hours later, but Uncle Vernon didn’t seem to hear her. Exactly what he was looking for, none of them knew. He drove them into the middle of a dark, thick forest full of magnificent trees with deep grooves along their trunks. He got out, looked around, shook his head, got back in the car, and off they went again. The same thing happened in the middle of a plain plowed field, halfway across a suspension bridge, and at the flat, paved open sun-heated top of a multi-level parking garage.

“Daddy’s gone mad, hasn’t he?” Dudley asked Aunt Petunia dully late that afternoon. Uncle Vernon had parked at the coast, along a flat stretch of wet stone right near a magnificent cliff leading down to the sea, had locked them all inside the car, and had disappeared into the soft curtain of grey rain moving toward them from the vast silvery sky.

The rain reached them. Great drops beat on the roof of the car. Dudley sniveled.

“It’s Monday,” he told his mother. “The Great Humberto’s on tonight. I want to stay somewhere with a _television.”_

Monday. This reminded Imogen of something. If it _was_ Monday - and you could usually count on Dudley to know the days of the week, because of television - then tomorrow, Tuesday, July 31st, would be Imogen’s eleventh birthday. Of course, she was with the Dursleys, who never usually celebrated her birthdays - that was more of her friends’ thing - last year on her birthday, the Dursleys had given her a coat hanger and an ugly old blouse of Aunt Petunia’s that she’d been about to give away to charity. Still, you weren’t eleven every day.

Uncle Vernon was back, dripping wet, and he was smiling eerily. He was also carrying a long, thin package and didn’t answer Aunt Petunia when she asked what he’d bought.

“Found the perfect place!” he said. “Come on! Everyone out!”

It was very cold outside the car. Uncle Vernon was pointing over the cliff, across the iron-grey, foaming white, choppy waves that were coming increasingly huger, toward what looked like a large rock way out at sea. Perched on top of the rock was a stone shack tilting over on itself with dark little windows, like something straight out of one of Imogen’s drawings. One thing was certain, there was no television in there.

“Storm forecast for tonight!” said Uncle Vernon gleefully, clapping his hands together. “And this gentleman’s kindly agreed to lend us his boat!”

A toothless old man came ambling up to them, pointing, with a rather wicked grin, down some steps leading down the side of the cliff to an old rowboat bobbing in the water below them.

“I’ve already got us some rations,” said Uncle Vernon, “so all aboard!”

It was freezing in the boat. Icy sea spray and rain crept down their necks and a chilly wind whipped their faces. After what seemed like hours they reached the rock, where Uncle Vernon, slipping and sliding, led the way to the broken-down house.

The inside was horrible; the floor was made of dirt, the whole place smelled strongly of seaweed, the wind whistled through the gaps in the wooden walls, there was only a single sofa, and the fireplace it was in front of was damp and dark and empty, a hole swallowing what warmth there had been left the rest of the room instead of providing warmth. There were only two rooms, the other being a small bedroom with one rather terrible bed.

Uncle Vernon’s rations turned out to be a bag of crisps each and four bananas. He tried to start a fire but the empty crisp bags just smoked and shriveled up.

“Could do with some of those letters now, eh?” he said cheerfully.

He was in a very good mood. Obviously he thought nobody stood a chance of reaching them here in a storm to deliver mail. Imogen privately agreed, though the thought didn’t cheer her up at all. She glared at him a lot that night, but what infuriated her most was that there wasn’t much else she could do.

As always, she was just a child.

As night fell, the promised storm blew up around them. Spray from the high waves splattered the walls of the hut and a fierce wind rattled the tiny, thick, filthy windows. Aunt Petunia found a few moldy blankets in the second room and made up a bed for Dudley on the ugly, moth-eaten sofa. She and Uncle Vernon went off to the lumpy bed next door, and Imogen was left to find the softest bit of floor she could and to curl up under the thinnest, most ragged blanket.

The final indignity.

The storm raged more and more ferociously as the night went on. Imogen couldn’t sleep. She shivered and turned over, trying to get comfortable, her stomach rumbling with hunger. Dudley’s snores were drowned by the low rolls of thunder that started near midnight. The lighted dial of Dudley’s watch, which dangled over the edge of the sofa on his thick wrist, told Imogen she’d be eleven in ten minutes’ time. She lay and watched her birthday tick nearer, wondering if the Dursleys would remember at all, wondering where the letter-writer was now.

Four minutes to go. Imogen heard something creak outside. She hoped the roof wasn’t going to fall in, although she might be warmer if it did. Four minutes to go. Maybe the house on Privet Drive would be so full of letters when they got back that she’d be able to steal one somehow.

Three minutes to go. Was that the sea, slapping hard on the rock like that? And (two minutes to go) what was that funny crunching noise? Was the rock crumbling into the sea?

One minute to go and she’d be eleven. Thirty seconds… twenty… ten… nine - maybe she’d wake Dudley up, just to annoy him - three… two… one…

BOOM.

The whole shack shivered and Imogen sat bolt upright, staring at the door. Someone was outside, knocking to come in.


	3. Imogen Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was the chapter that was hardest to write credible differences for. But I can't rewrite the whole series and not include this incredibly important chapter. Consider this one final chapter of mostly the same for each girl before the differences from each other and from canon start coming fast.
> 
> There is at least one important difference from canon in this chapter that will start to echo out in repercussions later for each girl, though. Let me know if you spot it.

_Imogen Three_

BOOM. They knocked again. Dudley jerked awake. 

“Where’s the cannon?” he said stupidly.

There was a crash behind them and Uncle Vernon came skidding into the room. He was holding a rifle in his hands - now they knew what had been in the long, thin package he’d brought with them. 

“Who’s there?” he shouted. “I warn you - I’m armed!”

There was a pause. Then -

SMASH!

The door was hit with such force that it swung clean off its hinges and with a deafening crash landed flat on the floor.

A giant of a man was standing in the doorway. His face was almost completely hidden by a long, shaggy mane of hair and a wild, tangled beard, but you could make out his eyes, glinting like black beetles under all the hair. He wore boots and a black leather jacket.

The giant squeezed his way into the hut, stooping so that his head just brushed the ceiling. He bent down, picked up the door, and fitted it easily back into its frame. The noise of the storm outside dropped a little. He turned to look at them all.

“Couldn’t make us a cup of tea, could you?” he said casually in a thick West Country accent. “It’s not been an easy journey.”

He strode over to the sofa where Dudley sat frozen with fear.

“Budge up, you great lump,” said the stranger.

Dudley paused - and then moved slowly, carefully, clearly terrified, in front of Imogen to shield her. Imogen paused in surprise, touched. “What - what do you want with her?” he demanded in a trembling voice. “Are you going to hurt her?”

The giant’s expression seemed to soften. “Maybe I didn’t give you enough credit,” he admitted. “Don’t you worry. I don’t mean her no harm.”

“Duddy! Come over here!” Aunt Petunia was hissing.

Dudley looked backward at Imogen. “It’s okay, Dudley,” she said, her eyes gentle, understanding. “You can go.”

Dudley walked across the room to his parents and as he did a gap widened between him and Imogen, a gap that seemed somehow more than physical. He hid behind his mother, who was crouching, terrified, behind Uncle Vernon. Imogen was left sitting alone in front of the sofa - very alone indeed.

“Well, and here’s Imogen!” said the giant.

Imogen looked up into the fierce, wild, shadowy face and saw that the beetle eyes were crinkled in a smile.

“Last time I saw you, you was only a baby,” said the giant. “You look a lot like your Dad, you’re a true Potter, but you’ve got your Mum’s eyes.”

Uncle Vernon made a funny rasping noise.

“I demand that you leave at once, sir!” he said. “You are breaking and entering!”

“Ah, shut up, Dursley, you great prune,” said the giant; he reached over the back of the sofa, jerked the gun out of Uncle Vernon’s hands, bent it into a knot as easily as if it had been made of rubber, and threw it into a corner of the room.

Uncle Vernon made another funny noise, like a mouse being trodden on.

“Anyway - Imogen,” said the giant, turning his back on the Dursleys, “a very happy birthday to you. Got something for you here - I might’ve sat on it at some point, but it’ll taste all right.”

From an inside pocket of his black overcoat he pulled a slightly squashed box. Imogen opened it slowly. Inside was a large, sticky chocolate cake with _Happy Birthday Imogen_ written on it in green icing.

Imogen looked up at the giant. She meant to say thank you, but the words got lost on the way to her mouth, and what she said instead was, “Who are you?”

The giant chuckled.

“True, I haven’t introduced meself. Rubeus Hagrid, Keeper of Keys and Grounds at Hogwarts.” 

He held out an enormous hand and shook Imogen’s whole arm.

“What about that tea then, eh?” he said, rubbing his hands together. “I’d not say no to something stronger if you’ve got it, mind.”

His eyes fell on the empty grate with the shriveled crisp bags in it and he snorted. He bent down over the fireplace; they couldn’t see what he was doing but when he drew back a second later there was a roaring fire there. It filled the whole damp hut with flickering light and Imogen felt the warmth wash over her as though she’d sunk into a hot bath.

The giant sat back down on the sofa, which sagged under his weight, and began taking all sorts of things out of the pockets of his coat: a copper kettle, a squashy package of sausages, a poker, a teapot, several chipped mugs, and a bottle of some amber liquid that he took a swig from before starting to make tea. Soon the hut was full of the sound and smell of sizzling sausage. Nobody said a thing while the giant was working, but as he slid the first six fat, juicy, slightly burnt sausages from the poker, Dudley fidgeted a little. Uncle Vernon said sharply, “Don’t touch anything he gives you, Dudley.”

The giant snorted again, and instead passed the sausages to Imogen, who was so hungry she had never tasted anything so wonderful. But she still couldn’t take her eyes off the giant. Finally, as nobody seemed about to explain anything, she said, “I’m sorry, but I still don’t really know who you are.”

The giant took a gulp of tea and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Call me Hagrid,” he said, “everyone does. And like I told you, I’m Keeper of Keys at Hogwarts - you’ll know all about Hogwarts, of course.”

“Er - no,” said Imogen.

Hagrid looked shocked.

“Sorry,” Imogen said quickly.

 _“Sorry?”_ barked Hagrid, turning to stare at the Dursleys, who shrank back into the shadows. “It’s them that should be sorry! I knew you weren’t getting your letters but I never thought you wouldn’t even know about Hogwarts, for crying out loud! Did you never wonder where your parents learned it all?”

“All what?” asked Imogen.

“ALL WHAT?” Hagrid thundered. “Now wait just one second!”

He had leapt to his feet. In his anger he seemed to fill the whole hut. The Dursleys were cowering against the wall.

“Do you mean to tell me,” he growled at the Dursleys, “that this girl - this girl! - knows nothing about - about ANYTHING?”

Imogen thought this was going a bit far. She had been to school, after all, and her marks weren’t bad.

“I know _some_ things,” she said. “I can, you know, do math and stuff.”

But Hagrid simply waved his hand and said, “About _our_ world, I mean. _Your_ world. _My_ world. _Your parents’ world.”_

“What world?”

Hagrid looked as if he was about to explode.

“DURSLEY!” he boomed.

Uncle Vernon, who had gone very pale, whispered something that sounded like “Mimblewimble.” Hagrid stared wildly at Imogen.

“But you must know about your mum and dad,” he said. “I mean, they’re _famous._ You’re _famous.”_

“What? My - my mum and dad weren’t famous, were they?”

“You don’t know… you don’t know…” Hagrid ran his fingers through his hair, fixing Imogen with a bewildered stare.

“You don’t know what you _are?”_ he said finally.

Uncle Vernon suddenly found his voice.

“Stop!” he said. “Stop right there, sir! I forbid you to tell the girl anything!”

A braver man than Vernon Dursley would have quailed under the furious look Hagrid now gave him; when Hagrid spoke, his every syllable trembled with rage.

“You never told her? Never told her what was in the letter Dumbledore left for her? I was there! I saw Dumbledore leave it, Dursley! And you’ve kept it from her all these years?”

“Kept _what_ from me?” said Imogen eagerly.

“STOP! I FORBID YOU!” yelled Uncle Vernon in panic.

Aunt Petunia gave a gasp of horror.

“Ah, go boil your heads, both of you,” said Hagrid. “Imogen - you’re a witch.”

There was silence inside the hut. Only the sea and the whistling wind could be heard.

“I’m a _what?”_ gasped Imogen.

“A witch, of course,” said Hagrid, sitting back down on the sofa, which groaned and sank even lower, “and a thumping good one, I’d say, once you’ve been trained up a bit. With a mum and dad like yours, what else would you be? And I reckon it’s about time you read your letter.”

Imogen stretched out her hand at last to take the yellowish envelope, addressed in emerald green to Miss I. Potter, The Floor, Hut-on-the-Rock, The Sea. She pulled out the letter and read:

_Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry_

_Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore_

_(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)_

_Dear Miss Potter,_

_We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment._

_Term begins on September 1. We await your owl by no later than July 31._

_Yours Sincerely,_

_Minerva McGonagall_

_Deputy Headmistress_

Questions exploded inside Imogen’s head like fireworks and she couldn’t decide which to ask first. After a few minutes she stammered, “What does it mean, they await my owl?”

“Galloping Gorgons, that reminds me,” said Hagrid, clapping a hand to his forehead with enough force to knock over a carthorse, and from yet another pocket of his overcoat he pulled an owl - a real, live, rather ruffled-looking owl - a long quill, and a roll of parchment. With his tongue between his teeth he scribbled a note that Imogen could read upside down:

_Dear Professor Dumbledore,_

_Given Imogen her letter._

_Taking her to buy her things tomorrow._

_Weather’s horrible. Hope you’re well._

_Hagrid_

Hagrid rolled up the note, gave it to the owl, which clamped it in its beak, went to the door, and threw the owl out into the storm. Then he came back and sat down as though this was as normal as talking on the telephone.

Imogen realized her mouth was open and closed it quickly. 

“Where was I?” said Hagrid, but at that moment, Uncle Vernon, still ashen-faced but looking very angry, moved into the firelight.

“She’s not going,” he said.

Hagrid grunted.

“I’d like to see a great Muggle like you stop her,” he said.

“A what?” said Imogen, interested.

“A Muggle,” said Hagrid, “it’s what we call nonmagic folk like them. And it’s your bad luck you grew up in a family of the biggest Muggles I ever laid eyes on.”

“We swore when we took her in we’d put a stop to that rubbish,” said Uncle Vernon, “swore we’d stamp it out of her! Witch indeed!”

“You _knew?”_ said Imogen. “You _knew_ I’m a - a witch?”

“Knew!” shrieked Aunt Petunia suddenly. _“Knew!_ Of course we knew! How could you not be, my dratted sister being what she was? Oh, she got a letter just like that and disappeared off to that - that _school_ \- and came home every vacation with her pockets full of frogspawn, turning teacups into rats. I was the only one who saw her for what she was - a freak! But for my mother and father, oh no, it was Lily this and Lily that, they were proud of having a witch in the family!”

She stopped to draw a deep breath and then went ranting on. It seemed she had been wanting to say all this for years.

“Then she met that Potter at school and they left and got married and had you, and of course I knew you’d be just the same, just as strange, just as - as - _abnormal_ \- and then, if you please, she went and got herself blown up and we got landed with you!

“Because you’re just like her! I always knew it and this proves it! You’re just as much of a freak as my sister was! Witches are Satanic, against the laws of nature! You know, I suppose, what they used to do to women they suspected were _witches,”_ she finished vindictively.

“Quite right,” said Uncle Vernon in a hard voice. “Witches are unnatural women! They refuse to see their place in the world -!”

“Then I am a witch!” Imogen shouted defiantly, and the Dursleys paused in surprise. Imogen’s face twisted, her hands in fists, and as she heard this extra prejudice against females with magic, she there and then made herself a promise. “And I am going to be the best damn witch I can be - the best the world’s ever seen! I’ll work as hard as I have to, train as much as I need! I’m going to be a witch, what you called a nasty woman, and I’m going to be a powerful one!

“Oh… and blown up? You told me my parents died in a _car crash.”_ Imogen’s eyes narrowed.

“CAR CRASH!” roared Hagrid, jumping up so angrily that the Dursleys scuttled back to their corner. “How could a car crash kill Lily and James Potter? It’s an outrage! A scandal! Imogen Potter not knowing her own story when every kid in our world knows her name, knows her as the Girl Who Lived!”

“But why? What happened?” Imogen asked urgently.

The anger faded from Hagrid’s face. He looked suddenly anxious.

“I never expected this,” he said, in a low, worried voice. “I had no idea, when Dumbledore told me there might be trouble getting hold of you, how much you didn’t know. Ah, Imogen, I don’t know if I’m the right person to tell you - but someone’s gotta - you can’t go off to Hogwarts not knowing.”

He threw a dirty look at the Dursleys.

“Well, it’s best you know as much as I can tell you - mind, I can’t tell you everything, it’s a great mystery, parts of it…”

He sat down, stared into the fire for a few seconds, and then said, “It begins, I suppose, with - with a person called - but it’s incredible you don’t know his name, everyone in our world knows -”

“Who?”

“Well - I don’t like saying the name if I can help it. No one does.”

“Why not?”

“Gulping gargoyles, Imogen, people are still scared. Blimey, this is difficult. See, there was this wizard who went… bad. As bad as you could go. Worse. Worse than worse. His name was…”

Hagrid gulped, but no words came out.

“Could you write it down?” Imogen suggested.

“Nah - can’t spell it. All right - _Voldemort.”_ Hagrid shuddered. “Don’t make me say it again. Anyway, this - this wizard, about twenty years ago now, started looking for followers. Got them, too - some were afraid, some just wanted a bit of his power, because he was getting himself power, all right. Dark days, Imogen. Didn’t know who to trust, didn’t dare get friendly with strange wizards or witches… terrible things happened. He was taking over. ‘Course, some stood up to him - and he killed them. Horribly. One of the only safe places left was Hogwarts. Reckon Dumbledore’s the only one You-Know-Who was ever afraid of. Didn’t dare try taking the school, not just then, anyway.

“Now, your mum and dad were as good a witch and wizard as I ever knew. Head boy and girl at Hogwarts in their day! Suppose the mystery is why You-Know-Who never tried to get them on his side before… probably knew they were too close to Dumbledore to want anything to do with the Dark Side.

“Maybe he thought he could persuade them… maybe he just wanted them out of the way. All anyone knows is, he turned up in the village where you was all living, on Halloween ten years ago. You was just a year old. He came to your house and - and -”

Hagrid suddenly pulled out a very dirty, spotted handkerchief and blew his nose with a sound like a foghorn.

“Sorry,” he said. “But it’s that sad - knew your mum and dad, and nicer people you couldn’t find - anyway…

“You-Know-Who killed them. And then - and this is the real mystery of the thing - he tried to kill you, too. Wanted to make a clean job of it, I suppose, or maybe he just liked killing by then. But he couldn’t do it. That’s why you’re the Girl Who Lived. Never wondered how you got that mark on your forehead? That was no ordinary cut. That’s what you get when a powerful, evil curse touches you - took care of your mum and dad and your house, even - but it didn’t work on you, and that’s why you’re famous, Imogen. No one ever lived after he decided to kill them, no one except you, and he’d killed some of the best wizards and witches of the age - the McKinnons, the Bones, the Prewetts - and you was only a baby, and you lived.”

Something very painful was going on in Imogen’s mind. As Hagrid’s story came to a close, she saw again the blinding flash of green light, more clearly than she had ever remembered it before, and she remembered something else, for the first time in her life: a high, cold, cruel laugh.

Hagrid was watching her sadly.

“Took you from the ruined house myself, on Dumbledore’s orders. Brought you to this lot…”

“Load of old tosh,” said Uncle Vernon. Imogen jumped; she had almost forgotten the Dursleys were there. Uncle Vernon certainly seemed to have got back his courage. He was glaring at Hagrid and his fists were clenched.

“Now, you listen here, girl,” he snarled, “I accept there’s something strange about you, probably nothing a good beating wouldn’t have cured - and as for all this about your parents, well, they were weirdos, no denying it, and the world’s better off without them in my opinion - asked for all they got, getting mixed up with these wizarding types - just what I expected, always knew they’d come to a sticky end -”

But at that moment, Hagrid leapt from the sofa and drew a battered pink umbrella from inside his coat. Pointing this at Uncle Vernon like a sword, he said, “I’m warning you, Dursley - I’m warning you - one more word…”

In danger of being speared on the end an umbrella by a bearded giant, Uncle Vernon’s courage failed again; he flattened himself against the wall and fell silent.

“That’s better,” said Hagrid, breathing heavily and sitting back down on the sofa, which this time sagged right down to the floor.

Imogen, meanwhile, still had questions to ask, hundreds of them.

“But what happened to Vol-, sorry - I mean, You-Know-Who?”

“Good question, Imogen. Disappeared. Vanished. Same night he tried to kill you. Makes you even more famous. That’s the biggest mystery, see… he was getting more and more powerful - why’d he go?

“Some say he died. Codswallop, in my opinion. Don’t know if he had enough human left in him to die. Some say he’s still out there, biding his time, like, but I don’t believe it. People who was on his side came back to ours. Some of them came out of kind of trances. Don’t reckon they could’ve done if he was coming back.

“Most of us reckon he’s still out there somewhere but lost his powers. Too weak to carry on. ‘Cause something about you finished him, Imogen. There was something going on that night that he hadn’t counted on - _I_ don’t know what it was, no one does - but something about you stumped him, all right.”

Hagrid looked at Imogen with warmth and respect blazing in his eyes, but Imogen, instead of feeling pleased and proud, felt quite sure there had been a horrible mistake. A witch? Her? How could she possibly be? She’d spent her life being protected by Dudley, and bullied by Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon; if she was really a witch, why hadn’t her aunt and uncle been turned into warty toads every time they’d tried to lock her in her cupboard? If she’d once defeated the greatest sorcerer in the world, how come Dudley had had to save her from every common schoolyard Muggle bully?

“Hagrid,” she said quietly, “I think you must have made a mistake. I don’t think I can be a witch.”

To her surprise, Hagrid chuckled.

“Not a witch, eh? Never made things happen when you was scared or angry?”

Imogen looked into the fire. Now she came to think about it… every odd thing that had ever made her aunt and uncle furious with her had happened when she, Imogen, had been upset or angry… picked on by that bully, she’d somehow made his skin rot on contact… dreading going back to school with that ridiculous haircut, she’d managed to grow it back… hating that ugly secondhand dress, she’d shrunk it until it no longer fit her… feeling sorry for that snake, it had suddenly become attracted to her and she’d been able to talk with it.

Imogen looked back at Hagrid, smiling, and saw that Hagrid was positively beaming at her.

“See?” said Hagrid. “Imogen Potter, not a witch - you wait, you’ll be right famous at Hogwarts.”

But Uncle Vernon wasn’t going to give in without a fight.

“Haven’t I told you she’s not going?” he hissed. “She’s going to Stonewall High and she’ll be grateful for it. I’ve read those books and she needs all sorts of rubbish - spell books and wands and -”

“If she wants to go, a great Muggle like you won’t stop her,” growled Hagrid. “Stop Lily and James Potter’s daughter going to Hogwarts! You’re mad. Her name’s been down ever since she was born. She’s off to the finest school of witchcraft and wizardry in the world. Seven years there and she won’t know herself. She’ll be with youngsters of her own sort, for a change, and she’ll be under the greatest headmaster Hogwarts ever had, Albus Dumbled -”

“I AM NOT PAYING FOR SOME CRACKPOT OLD FOOL TO TEACH HER MAGIC TRICKS!” yelled Uncle Vernon.

But he had finally gone too far. Hagrid seized his umbrella and whirled it over his head. “NEVER -” he thundered, “- INSULT - ALBUS - DUMBLEDORE - IN - FRONT - OF - ME!”

He brought the umbrella swishing down through the air to point at Uncle Vernon - there was a flash of violet light, a sound like a firecracker, a sharp squeal, and the next second, Uncle Vernon was dancing on the spot with his hands clasped over his bottom, howling in pain. When he turned his back on them, Imogen saw a curly pig’s tail poking through a hole in his trousers.

Aunt Petunia screamed. Pulling Uncle Vernon and Dudley into the other room, she cast one terrified look at Hagrid and slammed the door behind them.

Hagrid looked down at his umbrella and stroked his beard.

“Shouldn’t’ve lost me temper,” he said ruefully, “but it didn’t work anyway. Meant to turn him into a pig, but I suppose he was so much like a pig anyway there wasn’t much left to do.”

He cast a sideways look at Imogen under his bushy eyebrows.

“Be grateful if you didn’t mention that to anyone at Hogwarts,” he said. “I’m - er - not supposed to do magic, strictly speaking. I was allowed to do a bit to follow you and get your letters to you and stuff - one of the reasons I was so keen to take on the job -”

“Why aren’t you supposed to do magic?” asked Imogen.

“Oh, well - I was at Hogwarts meself, but I - er - got expelled, to tell you the truth. In me third year. They snapped me wand in half and everything. But Dumbledore let me stay on as gamekeeper. Great man, Dumbledore.”

“Why were you expelled?”

“It’s getting late and we’ve got lots to do tomorrow,” said Hagrid loudly. “Gotta get up to town, get all your books and that.”

He took off his thick black coat and threw it at Imogen.

“You can kip under that,” he said. “Don’t mind if it wriggles a bit. I think I still got a couple of dormice in one of the pockets.”


	4. Imogen Four

_Imogen Four_

Imogen woke early the next morning. Although she could tell it was daylight, she kept her eyes shut tight.

“It was a dream,” she told herself firmly. “I dreamed a giant called Hagrid came to tell me I was going to a school for witches. When I open my eyes I’ll be at home in my cupboard.”

There was suddenly a loud tapping noise.

“And there’s Aunt Petunia knocking on the door,” Imogen thought, her heart sinking. But she still didn’t open her eyes. It had been such a good dream.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

“All right,” Imogen mumbled, “I’m getting up.”

She sat up and Hagrid’s heavy coat fell off her. The hut was full of sunlight, the storm was over, Hagrid himself was asleep on the collapsed sofa, and there was an owl rapping its claw on the window, a newspaper held in its beak.

Imogen scrambled to her feet, so happy she felt as though a large balloon were swelling inside her. She went straight to the window and jerked it open. The owl swooped in and dropped the newspaper on top of Hagrid, who didn’t wake up. The owl then fluttered onto the floor and began to attack Hagrid’s coat.

“Don’t do that.”

Imogen tried to wave the owl out of the way, but it snapped its beak fiercely at her and carried on savaging the coat. 

“Hagrid!” said Imogen loudly. “There’s an owl -”

“Pay him,” Hagrid grunted into the sofa.

“What?”

“He wants paying for delivering the paper. Look in the pockets.”

Hagrid’s coat seemed to be made of nothing but pockets - bunches of keys, slug pellets, balls of string, peppermint humbugs, teabags… finally, Imogen pulled out a handful of strange-looking coins.

“Give him five Knuts,” said Hagrid sleepily.

“Knuts?”

“The little bronze ones.”

Imogen counted out five little bronze coins, and the owl held out his leg so Imogen could put the money into a small leather pouch tied to it. Then he flew off through the open window.

Hagrid yawned loudly, sat up, and stretched.

“Best be off, Imogen, lots to do today, gotta get up to London and buy all your stuff for school.”

Imogen was turning over the witch coins and looking at them. She had just thought of something that made her feel as though the happy balloon inside her had got a puncture.

“Um - Hagrid?”

“Mm?” said Hagrid, who was pulling on his huge boots.

“I haven’t got any money - and I don’t think Uncle Vernon would let even Dudley pay for my schooling. You heard Uncle Vernon last night… he won’t pay for me to go and learn magic. Not in any way.”

“Don’t worry about that,” said Hagrid, standing up and scratching his head. “Do you think your parents didn’t leave you anything?”

“But if their house was destroyed -”

“They didn’t keep their gold in the house, girl! Nah, first stop for us is Gringotts. Wizards’ bank. Have a sausage, they’re not bad cold - and I wouldn’t say no to a bit of your birthday cake, neither.”

“Wizards and witches have banks?”

“Just the one. Gringotts. Run by goblins.”

Imogen dropped the bit of sausage she was holding.

“Goblins?”

“Yeah - so you’d be mad to try and rob it, I’ll tell you that. Never mess with goblins, Imogen. Gringotts is the safest place in the world for anything you want to keep safe - except maybe Hogwarts. As a matter of fact, I gotta visit Gringotts anyway. For Dumbledore. Hogwarts business.” Hagrid drew himself up proudly. “He usually gets me to do important stuff for him. Fetching you - getting things from Gringotts - knows he can trust me, see.

“Got everything? Come on, then.”

Imogen followed Hagrid out onto the rock. The sky was quite clear now and the sea gleamed in the sunlight. The boat Uncle Vernon had hired was still there, with a lot of water in the bottom after the storm.

“How did you get here?” Imogen asked, looking around for another boat.

“Flew,” said Hagrid.

“Flew?!”

“Yeah - but we’ll go back in this. Not supposed to do magic now I’ve got you.”

They settled down in the boat, Imogen still staring at Hagrid, trying to imagine him flying.

“Seems a shame to row, though,” said Hagrid, giving Imogen another of his sideways looks. “If I was to - er - speed things up a bit, would you mind not mentioning it at Hogwarts?”

“Of course not,” said Imogen, eager to see more magic. Hagrid pulled out the pink umbrella again, tapped it twice on the side of the boat, and they sped off toward land.

“Why would you be mad to try and rob Gringotts?” Imogen asked.

“Spells - enchantments,” said Hagrid, unfolding his newspaper as he spoke. “They say there’s dragons guarding the high security vaults. And then you’ve got to find your way around - Gringotts is hundreds of miles under London, see. Deep under the Underground. You’d die of hunger trying to get out, even if you did manage to get your hands on something.”

Imogen sat and thought about this while Hagrid read his newspaper, the Daily Prophet. Imogen had learned from Uncle Vernon that people liked to be left alone while they did this, but it was very difficult, she’d never had so many questions in her life.

“Ministry of Magic messing things up as usual,” Hagrid muttered, turning the page.

“There’s a Ministry of Magic?” Imogen asked, before she could stop herself.

“‘Course,” said Hagrid. “They wanted Dumbledore for Minister, of course, but he’d never leave Hogwarts, so old Cornelius Fudge got the job. Bungler if ever there was one. So he pelts Dumbledore with owls every morning, asking for advice.”

“But what does a Ministry of Magic do?”

“Well, their main job is to keep it from the Muggles that there’s still witches and wizards up and down the country.”

“Why?”

“Why?! Blimey, Imogen, everyone would be wanting magic solutions to their problems. Nah, we’re best left alone.”

At this moment the boat bumped gently into the harbor wall. Hagrid folded up his newspaper, and they clambered up the stone steps onto the street.

Passersby stared a lot at Hagrid as they walked through the little town to the station. Not only was Hagrid twice as tall as anyone else, he kept pointing at perfectly ordinary things like parking meters and saying loudly, “See that, Imogen? Things these Muggles dream up, eh?”

Imogen took to making sarcastic comments in reply. “Well, making people pay to take up space and breathe air is rather ridiculous,” she would admit.

“Hagrid,” said Imogen at last, “did you say there are dragons at Gringotts?”

“Well, so they say,” said Hagrid. “Crikey, I’d like a dragon.”

“You’d… like one?”

“Wanted one ever since I was a kid - here we go.”

They had reached the station. There was a train to London in five minutes’ time. Hagrid, who didn’t understand “Muggle money” as he called it, gave the bills to Imogen so she could buy their tickets.

People stared more than ever on the train. Hagrid took up two seats and sat knitting what looked like a canary-yellow circus tent. Imogen was actually sinking down in her seat, starting to become embarrassed.

“Still got your letter, Imogen?” he asked as he counted stitches.

Imogen took the parchment envelope out of her pocket.

“Good,” said Hagrid. “There’s a list in there of everything you need.”

Imogen unfolded a second piece of paper she hadn’t noticed the night before, and read:

_Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry_

_Uniform_

_First-year students will require:_

_Three sets of plain work robes (black)_

_One plain pointed hat (black) for day wear_

_One pair of protective gloves (dragon hide or similar)_

_One winter cloak (black, silver fastenings)_

_Please note that all pupils’ clothes should carry name tags._

_Course Books_

_All students should have a copy of each of the following:_

_The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1) by Miranda Goshawk_

_A History of Magic by Bathilda Bagshot_

_Magical Theory by Adalbert Waffling_

_A Beginners’ Guide to Transfiguration by Emeric Switch_

_One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi by Phyllida Spore_

_Magical Drafts and Potions by Arsenius Jigger_

_Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them by Newt Scamander_

_The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection by Quentin Trimble_

_Other Equipment_

_1 wand_

_1 cauldron (pewter, standard size 2)_

_1 set glass or crystal vials_

_1 telescope_

_1 set brass scales_

_Students may also bring an owl OR a cat OR a toad._

_PARENTS ARE REMINDED THAT FIRST YEARS ARE NOT ALLOWED THEIR OWN BROOMSTICKS_

“Can we buy all this in London?” Imogen wondered aloud.

“If you know where to go,” said Hagrid.

-

Imogen had never been to London before. Although Hagrid seemed to know where he was going, he was obviously not used to getting there in an ordinary way. Imogen watched in exasperation as he got stuck in the ticket barrier on the Underground and complained loudly that the seats were too small and the trains too slow.

“I don’t know how the Muggles manage without magic,” he said to Imogen’s slight eye-roll, as they climbed a broken-down escalator that led up to a bustling road lined with shops.

Hagrid was so huge that he parted the crowd easily; all Imogen had to do was keep close behind him. They passed book shops and music stores, hamburger restaurants and cinemas, but nowhere that looked as if it could sell you a magic wand. This was just an ordinary street full of ordinary people. Could there really be piles of witch’s gold buried miles beneath them? Were there really shops that sold spell books and broomsticks? Might this not all be some huge joke the Dursleys had cooked up? If Imogen hadn’t known that the Dursleys had no sense of humor, she might have thought so; yet somehow, even though everything Hagrid had told her so far was unbelievable, Imogen couldn’t help trusting him.

“This is it,” said Hagrid, coming to a halt, “the Leaky Cauldron. It’s a famous place.”

It was a tiny, old-fashioned pub with a dark wood front and a painted oval sign hung out on a rod, wood plank flapping slightly in the breeze. The Leaky Cauldron seemed somewhat grubby; even the sign seemed coated in very old soot.

If Hagrid hadn’t pointed the Leaky Cauldron out, Imogen wouldn’t have noticed it was there. The people hurrying by didn’t glance at it. Their eyes slid from the big book shop on one side to the record shop on the other, and they strolled farther down Charing Cross Road as if they couldn’t see the Leaky Cauldron at all. In fact, Imogen had the most peculiar feeling that only she and Hagrid could see it. Before she could mention this, Hagrid had steered her inside.

For a famous place, it was very dark and shabby. It had lots of little dark wood tables, a long bar with gleaming metal instruments behind it, a fireplace off to the right side, and a staircase off to the left side that must lead up to the rooms. Even the flower-printed wallpaper seemed again old and sooty. A few old women were sitting in a corner drinking tiny glasses of sherry. One of them was smoking a long pipe. A little man in a top hat was talking to the old bartender, who was quite bald and looked like a toothless walnut.

“They’re all wearing ordinary clothes,” Imogen murmured, frowning. “But with some very old-fashioned additions.”

“Yeah, well,” said Hagrid, “we do wear Muggle clothes, mostly. Robes are mostly traditional things, for special or official occasions, they don’t really have a fashion. Only eccentrics always wear robes. And we tend to live longer than Muggles, so you’ll see a lot of people walking around dressed up in some very old fashioned Muggle garments - the kind they wore when they were young. When we’re out among Muggles and we want to spot each other, though, we always try to wear purple and green. Those are our colors.”

The low buzz of chatter in the Leaky Cauldron had stopped by this point. Everyone seemed to know Hagrid; they waved and smiled at him, and the bartender reached for a glass, saying, “The usual, Hagrid?”

“Can’t, Tom, I’m on Hogwarts business,” said Hagrid, clapping his great hand on Imogen’s shoulder and marking Imogen’s knees buckle.

“Good Lord,” said the bartender, peering at Imogen, “is this - can this be -?”

The Leaky Cauldron had suddenly gone completely still and silent.

“Bless my soul,” whispered the old bartender, “Imogen Potter… what an honor.”

He hurried out from behind the bar, rushed toward Imogen and seized her hand, tears in his eyes.

“Welcome back, Miss Potter, welcome back.”

Imogen didn’t know what to say. Everyone was looking at her. The old woman with the pipe was puffing on it without realizing it had gone out. Hagrid was beaming.

Then there was a great scraping of chairs and the next moment, Imogen found herself shaking hands with everyone in the Leaky Cauldron. Two particularly old-fashioned men bowed over her hand again, the second time that had happened in her life.

“Doris Crockford, Miss Potter, can’t believe I’m meeting you at last.”

“So proud, Miss Potter, I’m just so proud.”

“Always wanted to shake your hand - I’m all of a flutter.”

“Delighted, Miss Potter, just can’t tell you, Diggle’s the name, Dedalus Diggle.”

“I’ve seen you before!” said Imogen, as Dedalus Diggle’s top hat fell off in his excitement. “You bowed to me once in a shop.”

“She remembers!” cried Dedalus Diggle, looking around at everyone. “Did you hear that? She remembers me!”

Imogen shook and offered her hand again and again - Doris Crockford kept coming back for more; those same two men wouldn’t stop bowing.

A pale young man made his way forward, very nervously. One of his eyes was twitching.

“Professor Quirrell!” said Hagrid. “Imogen, Professor Quirrell will be one of your teachers at Hogwarts.”

“P-P-Potter,” stammered Professor Quirrell, grasping Imogen’s hand, “c-can’t t-tell you how p-pleased I am to meet you.”

“What sort of magic do you teach, Professor Quirrell?”

“D-Defense Against the D-D-Dark Arts,” muttered Professor Quirrell, as though he’d rather not think about it. “N-not that you n-need it, eh, P-P-Potter?” He laughed nervously.

“Oh, I’m sure you have so much to teach me,” said Imogen eagerly, remembering her promise to become a great witch from the night before. “Professor, I’m particularly interested, what can a witch do after she leaves school? I aim to become someone special, you see.”

“S-some would s-s-say you already a-are,” said Professor Quirrell, smiling anxiously and seeming surprised.

“But I want to actually do something. Not just have something happen to me,” said Imogen firmly. “Not necessarily something great… just something that proves I’m a worthwhile witch.”

“You don’t have to prove that to anyone, Imogen,” said Hagrid.

“Except to myself,” said Imogen. “So, Professor.” She turned back to him, eagle-eyed. “Is there anything in particular I should study? What are my career options?” She lifted her head. She wanted to know what a witch could do after she left school.

“W-well…” said Professor Quirrell thoughtfully, apparently interested to be asked a scholarly question. “Th-there are really f-four ways to go. There are the w-working class jobs - sh-shop clerk, caretaker. There are the jobs that are e-everywhere - p-professor, journalist, lawyer, g-government worker, Au-Aurors are a bit like policemen, and then Potioneers for Apothecaries are rather like ph-pharmacists in the Muggle world, while Healers are rather like d-doctors. No b-banking; th-that’s goblin purview. There are jobs in any of the arts, though one would replace f-film with th-theater in our world, as we don’t have t-television or the Internet; we even have our kind of p-professional sports. Then there are specifically m-magical jobs - working with m-magical creatures or in magical experimentation and theory, working on the magic surrounding G-Gringotts vaults, alchemy, that sort of thing. There are even people who specifically s-study sentient magical creature languages, or M-Muggle culture. And there are people who magically reconfigure w-wizarding technology, electricity normally being incompatible with m-magic, to f-fit into our old-fashioned w-world.

“You have m-many options, Miss Potter. N-n-never forget that.”

“That sounds wonderful…” said Imogen softly, watching him intently. 

“Professor Quirrell knows, ‘cause he used to teach Muggle Studies,” said Hagrid proudly. “That’s a third-year elective. He changed subjects.”

“Really? That’s interesting,” said Imogen thoughtfully. “What made you go from one to the other?”

Nervous Professor Quirrell looked like he was beginning to wonder the same thing himself. He was still pale; one of his eyes was still twitching. “Oh, j-just wanted a change.” He tried for a trembling, brave smile. “S-so, P-P-Potter, you’ll be g-g-getting all your equipment, I suppose? I’ve g-got to pick up a new b-book on vampires, m-myself.” He looked terrified at the very thought.

“I can’t wait to buy books. I’ll have to start out with lots of extras,” said Imogen, smiling. Hearing her countless career options had excited her, opened her eyes to all the things she could do with her life if she took her studies seriously enough. This world, with its modern clothes and its selective technology and its fantastical careers, was like the ordinary world on steroids. All those careers… how would she be able to choose just one?!

But the others wouldn’t let Professor Quirrell keep Imogen to himself. It took almost ten more minutes to get away from them all. At last, Hagrid managed to make himself heard over the babble.

“Must get on - lots to buy. Come on, Imogen.”

Doris Crockford shook Imogen’s hand one last time, and Hagrid led them through the bar and out into a small, walled courtyard, where there was nothing but a trash can and a few weeds. 

Hagrid grinned at Imogen.

“Told you, didn’t I? Told you you was famous. Even Professor Quirrell was trembling to meet you - mind you, he’s usually trembling.”

“Is he always that nervous?”

“Oh, yeah. Poor bloke. Brilliant mind. He was fine while he was studying out of books, but then he took a year off to get some firsthand experience… They say he met vampires in the Black Forest, and there was a nasty bit of trouble with a hag - never been the same since. Scared of the students, scared of his own subject - now, where’s me umbrella?”

Hagrid found it, took it out of his coat pocket, and began counting bricks in the wall above the trash can.

“Three up… two across…” he muttered. “Right, stand back, Imogen.”

He tapped the wall three times with the point of his umbrella.

The brick he had touched quivered - it wriggled - in the middle a small hole appeared - it grew wider and wider - a second later they were facing an archway large enough even for Hagrid, an archway onto a cobbled street full of colorful little shop buildings that twisted and turned out of sight.

“Welcome,” said Hagrid, “to Diagon Alley.”

He grinned at Imogen’s amazement. They stepped through the archway. Imogen looked quickly over her shoulder and saw the archway shrink instantly back into solid wall.

The sun shone brightly on a stack of cauldrons outside the nearest shop. Cauldrons - All Sizes - Copper, Brass, Pewter, Silver - Self Stirring - Collapsible, said a sign hanging over them. The shop was called Potages.

“Yeah, you’ll be needing one,” said Hagrid, “but we’ve got to get your money first.”

Imogen wished she had about eight more eyes. She turned her head in every direction as they walked up the street, trying to look at everything at once: the shops, the things outside them, the people doing their shopping. A plump woman outside an Apothecary was shaking her head as they passed, saying, “Dragon liver, seventeen Sickles an ounce, they’re mad…”

A low, soft hooting came from a dark shop with a sign saying Eeylops Owl Emporium - Tawny, Screech, Barn, Brown, and Snowy. Several boys of about Imogen’s age had their noses pressed against a window with broomsticks in it. “Look,” Imogen heard one of them say, “the new Nimbus Two Thousand - fastest ever…” Meanwhile, several girls of about Imogen’s age were oohing and aahing outside the windows of a department store advertising itself as Gladrags Wizardwear. There were shops selling antique robes, shops selling telescopes and strange silver instruments Imogen had never seen before, windows stacked with barrels of bat spleens and eels’ eyes, tottering piles of spell books, quills, and rolls of parchment, potion bottles, globes of the moon… 

“Gringotts,” said Hagrid.

They had reached a snowy white marble building with Grecian columns that towered over the other little shops. Standing beside its burnished bronze doors, wearing a uniform of scarlet and gold, was - 

“Yeah, that’s a goblin,” said Hagrid quietly as they walked up the white stone steps toward him. The goblin was about a head shorter than Imogen. He had a swarthy, clever face, a pointed beard and, Imogen noticed, very long fingers and feet. He bowed as they walked inside. Now they were facing a second pair of doors, silver this time, with words engraved upon them:

_Enter, stranger, but take heed_

_Of what awaits the sin of greed,_

_For those who take, but do not earn,_

_Must pay most dearly in their turn._

_So if you seek beneath our floors_

_A treasure that was never yours,_

_Thief, you have been warned, beware_

_Of finding more than treasure there._

“Like I said, you’d be mad to try and rob it,” said Hagrid.

A pair of goblins bowed them through the silver doors and they were in a vast marble hall. About a hundred more goblins were sitting on high stools behind a long counter, scribbling in large ledgers, weighing coins in brass scales, examining precious stones through eyeglasses. There were too many doors to count leading off the hall, and yet more goblins were showing people in and out of these. Hagrid and Imogen made for the counter.

“Morning,” said Hagrid to a free goblin. “We’ve come to take some money out of Miss Imogen Potter’s safe.”

“You have her key, sir?”

“Got it here somewhere,” said Hagrid, and he started emptying his pockets onto the counter, scattering a handful of moldy dog biscuits over the goblin’s book of numbers. The goblin wrinkled his nose. Imogen watched the goblin on their right weighing a pile of rubies as big as glowing coals.

“Got it,” said Hagrid at last, holding up a tiny golden key.

The goblin looked at it closely. 

“That seems to be in order.”

Imogen took the key and tucked it deep in her pocket.

“And I’ve also got a letter here from Professor Dumbledore,” said Hagrid importantly, throwing out his chest. “It’s about the You-Know-What in vault seven hundred and thirteen.”

The goblin read the letter carefully.

“Very well,” he said, handing it back to Hagrid. “I will have someone take you down to both vaults. Griphook!”

Griphook was yet another goblin. Once Hagrid had crammed all of the dog biscuits back inside his pockets, he and Imogen followed Griphook toward one of the doors leading off the hall.

“What’s the You-Know-What in vault seven hundred and thirteen?” Imogen asked.

“Can’t tell you that,” said Hagrid mysteriously. “Very secret. Hogwarts business. Dumbledore’s trusted me. More than my job’s worth to tell you that.”

Griphook held the door open for them. Imogen, who had expected more marble, was surprised. They were in a narrow stone passageway lit with flaming torches. It sloped steeply downward and there were little railway tracks on the floor. Griphook whistled and a small cart came hurtling up the tracks toward them. They climbed in - Hagrid with some difficulty - and were off.

At first they just hurtled through a maze of twisting passageways. Imogen tried to remember left, right, right, left, middle fork, right, left, but it was impossible. The rattling cart seemed to know its own way, because Griphook wasn’t steering.

Imogen’s eyes stung as the cold air rushed past them, but she kept them wide open. Once, she thought she saw a burst of fire at the end of a passage and twisted around to see if it was a dragon, but too late - they plunged even deeper, passing an underground lake where stalactites and stalagmites grew from the ceiling and floor.

“I never know,” Imogen called to Hagrid over the noise of the cart, “what’s the difference between a stalagmite and a stalactite.”

“Stalagmite’s got an ‘m’ in it,” said Hagrid. “And don’t ask me questions just now, I think I’m gonna be sick.”

He did look very green, and when the cart stopped at last beside a small door in the passage wall, Hagrid got out and had to lean against the wall to stop his knees from trembling.

So Imogen asked Griphook. “Griphook - just what does my family’s money look like?” She thought this to be an important thing to know, if she was going to try and know everything that was important.

“Well.” Griphook paused thoughtfully. “You had an ancestor in the twelfth century who invented several commonly used medicinal potions. You get a cut of money every single time a Skele-Gro Potion or a Pepperup Potion is made, bought, and sold. That’s a limb regrowing potion and the cure for the common cold.”

Imogen’s eyes had widened.

“So you have quite a bit of money,” said Griphook casually. “The Potters are one of our oldest and wealthiest families. You have the trust fund you can access now, and then the main Potter family vault when you come of age at seventeen. The main vault continually refills the trust vault, and the medicinal potions continually refill the main vault. Do you see?”

Imogen did see.

“The family vault is cursed with an ever-growing spell. The minute a piece of gold is touched, it continues to magically multiply false gold until eventually the thief drowns in a pile of the money they themselves wanted. The trust vault is cursed with toxic fumes - they come out every time the vault is opened, and are only harmless to those with good intentions and those who belong. So a bit milder.

“You are worth several million Galleons a year. In Muggle terms that makes you a billionaire,” said Griphook, smirking.

A billionaire. Imogen was speechless, completely floored.

But that was nothing compared to what was about to come.

Imogen’s trust vault was number six hundred and eighty seven. Griphook unlocked the door with the tiny golden key, then gave it back to Imogen. A lot of green smoke came billowing out, and as it cleared, Imogen gasped, wordless. Inside were mounds of gold coins. Columns of silver. Heaps of little bronze Knuts.

“All yours,” smiled Hagrid.

All Imogen’s - it was incredible. The Dursleys couldn’t have known about this or they’d have had it from her faster than blinking. How often had they complained how much Imogen cost them to keep? And all the time there had been a fortune belonging to her, buried deep under London.

“... Can this be transferred over into Muggle pounds, any of it?” she asked intently.

“As much as you wish, Miss Potter,” said Griphook with a slow, wicked smile.

“... I would like to do that when we get back to the hall,” she said, determination forming over her expression. She would finally be able to pay back Dudley.

Hagrid helped Imogen pile some of it into a bag.

“The gold ones are Galleons,” he explained. “Seventeen silver Sickles to a Galleon and twenty-nine Knuts to a Sickle, it’s easy enough. Right, that should be enough for a couple of terms, we’ll keep the rest safe for you.” He turned to Griphook. “Vault seven hundred and thirteen now, please, and can we go more slowly?”

“One speed only,” said Griphook.

They were going even deeper now and gathering speed. The air became colder and colder as they hurtled around tight corners. They went rattling over an underground ravine, and Imogen leaned over to try to see what was at the dark bottom, but Hagrid groaned and pulled her back by the scruff of her neck.

Vault seven hundred and thirteen had no keyhole.

“Stand back,” said Griphook importantly. He stroked the door with one of his long fingers and it simply melted away.

“If anyone but a Gringotts goblin tried that, they’d be sucked through the door and trapped in there,” said Griphook.

“How often do you check to see if anyone’s inside?” Imogen asked.

“About once every ten years,” said Griphook with a rather nasty grin.

Something really extraordinary had to be inside this top security vault, Imogen was sure, and she leaned forward eagerly, expecting to see fabulous jewels at the very least - but at first she thought it was empty. Then she noticed a grubby little package wrapped up in brown paper lying on the floor. Hagrid picked it up and tucked it deep inside his coat. Imogen longed to know what it was, but knew better than to ask.

“Come on, back inside this infernal cart, and don’t talk to me on the way back, it’s best if I keep me mouth shut,” said Hagrid.

-

One wild cart ride and exchange of some of Imogen’s money at the counter later, they stood blinking in the sunlight outside Gringotts. Imogen didn’t know where to run first now that she had a bag full of witch’s gold. She knew she was holding more money than she’d had in her whole life - more money than even Dudley had ever had.

“Might as well get your uniform,” said Hagrid, nodding toward Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions. “Listen, Imogen, would you mind if I slipped off for a pick me up in the Leaky Cauldron? I hate them Gringotts carts.” He did still look a bit sick, so Imogen entered Madam Malkin’s shop alone, feeling nervous.

Madam Malkin was a squat, smiling witch dressed all in mauve. 

“Hogwarts, dear?” she said, when Imogen started to speak. “Got the lot here. A young man your age being fitted up just now, in fact.”

In the back of the shop, a boy with a pale, pointed face was standing on a footstool while a second witch pinned up his long black robes. Madam Malkin stood Imogen on a stool next to him, slipped a long robe over her head, and began to pin it to the right length.

“Hello,” said the boy. “Hogwarts, too?”

“Yes,” said Imogen.

“My father’s next door buying my books and mother’s up the street looking at wands,” said the boy. He had a bored, drawling voice. “Then I’m going to drag them off to look at racing brooms. I don’t see why first years can’t have their own. I think I’ll bully father into getting me one and I’ll smuggle it in somehow.”

Imogen felt a sharp spurt of distaste.

“I don’t suppose you’ve got your own broom or play Quidditch at all, being a girl,” the boy supposed slowly.

Whether Quidditch was a game or a sport, Imogen immediately got defensive.

“So I can’t be interested in anything broom-related because eventually I’ll grow breasts?” she asked in a slow, sarcastic, biting voice, her eyes narrowing. She put on her tough face.

The boy flushed, but was silent for a few seconds.

Imogen was still wondering what on earth Quidditch could be and why broom flying was reserved for men. She was beginning to strongly dislike this boy.

“I play Quidditch,” the boy continued. “Father says it’s a crime if I’m not picked to play for my house, and I must say, I agree. Know what house you’ll be in yet?”

“No,” said Imogen, feeling more stupid by the minute.

“Well, no one really knows until they get there, do they, but I know I’ll be in Slytherin, all our family have been - imagine being in Hufflepuff, I think I’d leave, wouldn’t you?”

“Mmm,” said Imogen, wishing she could say something a bit more interesting.

“I say, look at that man!” said the boy suddenly, nodding toward the front window. Hagrid was standing there, grinning at Imogen and pointing at two large ice cream cones to show he couldn’t come in.

“That’s Hagrid,” said Imogen, brightening. “He works at Hogwarts.”

“Oh,” said the boy, “I’ve heard of him. He’s a sort of servant, isn’t he?”

“He’s the gamekeeper,” said Imogen. She was liking this boy less and less every second.

“Yes, exactly. I heard he’s a sort of savage - lives in a hut on the school grounds and every now and then he gets drunk, tries to do magic, and ends up setting fire to his bed.”

“Well that shows what kinds of sensibilities and tastes you have, because I happen to know he’s brilliant,” said Imogen coldly.

“Really?” The boy sneered again. “Why is he with you? Where are your parents?”

“They’re dead,” said Imogen shortly. She didn’t feel much like going into the matter with this boy.

“Oh, sorry,” said the boy, not sounding sorry at all. “But they were our kind, weren’t they?”

“They were a witch and wizard, if that’s what you mean.”

“I really don’t think they should let the other sort in, do you? They’re just not the same, they’ve never been brought up to know our ways. Some of them have never even heard of Hogwarts until they get the letter, imagine. I think they should keep it in the old wizarding families. What’s your surname, anyway?”

But before Imogen could answer, Madam Malkin said, “That’s you done, my dear,” and Imogen, not sorry for an excuse to stop talking to the boy, hopped off the footstool.

“Well, I’ll see you at Hogwarts, I suppose,” said the drawling boy.

Imogen was rather quiet as she ate the ice cream Hagrid had bought her (chocolate and raspberry with chopped nuts).

“What’s up?” said Hagrid.

“Nothing,” Imogen lied. They stopped to buy parchment and quills. Imogen cheered up a bit when she found a bottle of ink that changed color as you wrote. When they had left the shop, she said, “Hagrid, what’s Quidditch?”

“Blimey, Imogen, I keep forgetting how little you know - not knowing about Quidditch!”

“Don’t make me feel worse,” said Imogen. She told Hagrid about the pale boy in Madam Malkin’s.

“- and he said people from Muggle families shouldn’t even be allowed in -”

“You’re not from a Muggle family. If he’d known who you were - he’s grown up knowing your name if his parents are wizarding folk. You saw what everyone in the Leaky Cauldron was like when they saw you. Anyway, what does he know about it, some of the best I ever saw were the only ones with magic in them in a long line of Muggles - look at your mum! Look what she had for a sister!”

“I just feel like I’ve been wanting so badly to fit in here, to be a great witch who studies really hard, but what if it’s impossible? What if I just don’t fit in?” said Imogen, earnest and upset as she stopped on the street to look up at Hagrid.

“You want to know the truth?” said Hagrid seriously. “The truth is that the boy you met just loves mocking people. Wizarding folk, wizards and witches, are good at accepting everyone - women, gay people, people of different races - we’re great at accepting everyone, except for the people unlike us in the biggest way. People who come from Muggle families.

“But that doesn’t make it right, and it doesn’t make it true. You can fit in; you can be a great witch if you set your mind to it. Never let anyone make you think differently because they don’t like things that are different. Okay?”

He looked underneath his thick eyebrows at her. At last, Imogen’s face broke into a smile.

“... Okay,” she said. “So what is Quidditch?”

“It’s our sport. Wizard sport, and yes witches do play it too. It’s like - like football in the Muggle world - everyone follows Quidditch - played up in the air on broomsticks and there’s four balls - sort of hard to explain the rules.”

“And what are Slytherin and Hufflepuff?”

“School houses. There’s four. Everyone says Hufflepuffs are a lot of duffers, but -”

“I bet I’m in Hufflepuff,” said Imogen gloomily.

“Better Hufflepuff than Slytherin,” said Hagrid darkly. “There’s not a single witch or wizard who went bad who wasn’t in Slytherin. You-Know-Who was one.”

“Vol-, sorry - You-Know-Who was at Hogwarts?”

“Years and years ago,” said Hagrid.

They bought Imogen’s school books in a shop called Flourish and Blotts where the shelves were stacked to the ceiling with books as large as paving stones bound in leather; books the size of postage stamps covered in silk; books full of peculiar symbols and a few books with nothing in them at all. Here, Imogen went mad. Determined to become a powerful witch, she decided she had to narrow her extra reading down to a specific point of focus, and she went for the intricacies of magic itself. Magical theory, learning, and mastery as well as potions and magical plants and creatures - those were her choices outside of school.

“I figure I’ll learn everything I need to about wizarding culture and history over time and at Hogwarts,” she told Hagrid excitedly, lifting up her gigantic pile of extra books and tottering under the weight. “But I must learn as much as possible about magic, if I’m to become a powerful witch!”

“Half that magic you couldn’t even work yet. At least half,” said Hagrid, bewildered. “You’ll need a lot more study before you get to that level.”

“But there’s no harm in starting my studies early. Right? Come on, Hagrid, they’re books to do with school. Parents usually want their kids to take an interest in that,” Imogen sighed, peeking big green bespectacled eyes out from behind the pile of books in her arms.

“Well, all right,” said Hagrid skeptically. “Just do me a favor and don’t practice anything that says it’s past first or second year, okay? We don’t want you passing out.”

Imogen also bought wizarding versions of some of her favorite hobbies while around Flourish and Blotts. She bought a record player and albums from a popular male rock band called The Weird Sisters, from a popular singing sorceress called Celestina Warbeck, and from a popular handsome half-vampire musician called Lorcan d’Eath. She also bought a series of parchments and inks that made her drawings come to life underneath her fingertips.

To her fascination, all the pictures moved. The album covers, the art she saw. Even the artistic images writhed and moved around their covers as though alive, and the person-like sentient subjects waved and made personality appropriate movements and signs from the pictures, sometimes disappearing from the frame for a while altogether.

“That’s all our pictures - art, photographs. It all moves around,” said Hagrid. “Most wizards and witches can’t believe it when Muggleborns tell them everything just stays put in Muggle pictures. Very strange indeed.”

Hagrid finally put his foot down and wouldn’t let Imogen buy a solid gold cauldron (“It says pewter on your list”), but they got a nice set of scales for weighing potion ingredients and a collapsible brass telescope. Then they visited the Apothecary, which was fascinating enough to make up for its horrible smell, a mixture of bad eggs and rotted cabbages. Barrels of slimy stuff stood on the floor; jars of herbs, dried roots, and bright powders lined the walls; bundles of feathers, strings of fangs, and snarled claws hung from the ceiling. While Hagrid asked the man behind the counter for a supply of some basic potion ingredients for Imogen (the expensive kit, complete with crystal vials and expensive black dragonhide protective gloves), Imogen herself examined silver unicorn horns at twenty-one Galleons each and minuscule, glittery black beetle eyes (five Knuts a scoop).

Outside the Apothecary, Hagrid checked Imogen’s list again.

“Just your wand left - oh yeah, and I still haven’t got you a birthday present.”

Imogen felt herself go red.

“You don’t have to -”

“I know I don’t have to. Tell you what, I’ll get your animal. Not a toad, toads went out of fashion years ago, you’d be laughed at - and I don’t like cats, they make me sneeze. I’ll get you an owl. All the kids want owls, they’re dead useful, carry your mail and everything.”

Twenty minutes later, they left Eeylops Owl Emporium, which had been dark and full of rustling and flickering, jewel-bright eyes. Imogen now carried a large cage that held a beautiful snowy owl, fast asleep with her head under her wing. She couldn’t stop thanking Hagrid fervently.

“Don’t mention it,” said Hagrid gruffly. “Don’t expect you’ve had a lot of presents from them Dursleys. Just Ollivanders left now - only place for wands, Ollivanders, and you gotta have the best wand.”

A magic wand… this was what Imogen had really been looking forward to.

The last shop was narrow and shabby. Peeling gold letters over the door read Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands Since 382 B.C. A single wand lay on a faded purple cushion in the dusty window.

A tinkling bell rang somewhere in the depths of the shop as they stepped inside. It was a tiny place, empty except for a single, spindly chair that Hagrid sat on to wait. Imogen felt strangely as though she had entered a very strict library; she swallowed a lot of new questions that had just occurred to her and looked instead at the thousands of narrow boxes piled neatly right up to the ceiling. For some reason, the back of her neck prickled. The very dust and silence in here seemed to tingle with some secret magic.

“Good afternoon,” said a soft voice. Imogen jumped. Hagrid must have jumped, too, because there was a loud crunching noise and he got quickly off the spindly chair. 

An old man was standing before them, his wide, pale eyes shining like moons through the gloom of the shop.

“Hello,” said Imogen awkwardly.

“Ah, yes,” said the man. “Yes, yes. I thought I’d be seeing you soon. Imogen Potter.” It wasn’t a question. “You have your mother’s eyes. It seems only yesterday she was in here herself, buying her first wand. Ten and a quarter inches long, swishy, made of willow. Nice wand for charm work.”

Mr Ollivander moved closer to Imogen. Imogen wished he would blink. Those silvery eyes were a bit creepy.

“Your father, on the other hand, favored a mahogany wand. Eleven inches. Pliable. A little more power and excellent for Transfiguration. Well, I say your father favored it - it’s really the wand that chooses the witch or wizard, of course.”

Mr Ollivander had come so close that he and Imogen were almost nose to nose. Imogen could see herself reflected in those misty eyes.

“And that’s where…”

Mr Ollivander touched the lightning scar on Imogen’s forehead with a long, white finger.

“I’m sorry to say I sold the wand that did it,” he said softly. “Thirteen and a half inches. Yew. Powerful wand, very powerful, and in the wrong hands… well, if I’d known what that wand was going out into the world to do…”

He shook his head and then, to Imogen’s relief, spotted Hagrid.

“Rubeus! Rubeus Hagrid! How nice to see you again… Oak, sixteen inches, rather bendy, wasn’t it?”

“It was, sir, yes,” said Hagrid.

“Good wand, that one. But I suppose they snapped it in half when you got expelled?” said Mr Ollivander, suddenly stern.

“Er - yes, they did, yes,” said Hagrid, shuffling his feet. “I’ve still got the pieces, though,” he added brightly.

“But you don’t use them?” said Mr Ollivander sharply. 

“Oh, no, sir,” said Hagrid quickly. Imogen noticed he gripped his pink umbrella very tightly as he spoke.

“Hmmm,” said Mr Ollivander, giving Hagrid a piercing look. “Well, now - Miss Potter. Let me see.” He pulled a long tape measure with silver markings out of his pocket. “Which is your wand arm?”

“Er - well, I’m right-handed,” said Imogen.

“Hold out your arm. That’s it.” He measured Imogen from shoulder to finger, then wrist to elbow, shoulder to floor, knee to armpit and round her head. As he measured, he said, “Every Ollivander wand has a core of a powerful magical substance, Miss Potter. We use unicorn hairs, phoenix tail feathers, and the heartstrings of dragons. No two Ollivander wands are the same, just as no two unicorns, dragons, or phoenixes are quite the same. And of course, you will never get such good results with another witch’s wand.”

Imogen suddenly realized that the tape measure, which was measuring between her nostrils, was doing this on its own. Mr Ollivander was flitting around the shelves, taking down boxes. 

“That will do,” he said, and the tape measure crumpled into a heap on the floor. “Right then, Miss Potter. Try this one. Beech wood and dragon heartstring. Nine inches. Nice and flexible. Just take it and give it a wave.”

Imogen took the wand and (feeling foolish) waved it around a bit, but Mr Ollivander snatched it out of her hand almost at once.

“No, no - here, ebony and unicorn hair, eight and a half inches, springy. Go on, go on, try it out.”

Imogen tried. And tried. She had no idea what Mr Ollivander was waiting for. The pile of tried wands mounted higher and higher on the spindly chair, but the more wands Mr Ollivander pulled from the shelves, the happier he seemed to become.

“Tricky customer, eh? Not to worry, we’ll find the perfect match here somewhere - I wonder, now - yes, why not - ebony and phoenix feather, twelve and three-quarter inches, quite flexible.”

Imogen took the striking black wand. She felt a sudden warmth in her fingers. She raised the wand above her head, brought it swishing down through the dusty air and a stream of red and gold sparks shot from the end like a firework, throwing dancing spots of light on the walls. Hagrid whooped and clapped and Mr Ollivander cried, “Oh, bravo! Yes, indeed, oh, very good. Well, well, well… how curious… how very curious…”

He put Imogen’s wand back into its box and wrapped it in brown paper, still muttering, “Curious… curious…”

“Sorry,” said Imogen, “but what’s curious?”

Mr Ollivander fixed Imogen with his pale stare.

“First, there is the meaning behind your wand wood. And I will explain why it is interesting in a moment. 

“This jet-black wand wood has an impressive appearance and reputation, being highly suited to all manner of combative magic, and to Transfiguration. Ebony is happiest in the hand of those with the courage to be themselves. Frequently non-conformist, highly individual or comfortable with the status of outsider, ebony wand owners have been found both among the ranks of the Light and the Dark. In my experience the ebony wand’s perfect match is one who will hold fast to his or her beliefs, no matter what the external pressure, and will not be swayed lightly from their purpose.

“Now, why is this interesting? 

“I remember every wand I’ve ever sold, Miss Potter. Every single wand. It so happens that the phoenix whose tail feather is in your wand, gave another feather - just one other. It is very curious indeed that you should be destined for this wand when its mate - why, its mate gave you that scar.”

Imogen swallowed.

“Yes, thirteen and a half inches. Yew. Curious indeed how these things happen. The wand chooses the witch, remember… I think we must expect great things from you, Miss Potter… After all, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named did great things - terrible, yes, but great.”

Imogen shivered. She wasn’t sure she liked Mr Ollivander too much. The thought of doing great things should have been welcome, but somehow in this context it was just creepy and overwhelming. She paid seven gold Galleons for her wand, and Mr Ollivander bowed them from his shop.

-

The late afternoon sun hung low in the sky as Imogen and Hagrid made their way back down Diagon Alley, back through the wall, back through the Leaky Cauldron, now empty. Imogen didn’t speak at all as they walked down the road; she didn’t even notice how much people were gawking at them on the Underground, laden as they were with all their funny-shaped packages, with the snowy owl asleep in its cage on Imogen’s lap. Up another escalator, out into Paddington station; Imogen only realized where they were when Hagrid tapped her on the shoulder.

“Got time for a bite to eat before your train leaves,” he said.

He bought Imogen a hamburger and they sat down on plastic seats to eat them. Imogen kept looking around. Everything looked so strange, somehow.

“You all right, Imogen? You’re very quiet,” said Hagrid.

Imogen wasn’t sure she could explain. She’d just had the best birthday of her life - and yet - she chewed her hamburger, trying to find the words.

“Everyone thinks I’m special,” she said at last. “Before I’ve even done anything, I mean. All those people in the Leaky Cauldron, Professor Quirrell, Mr Ollivander… but I don’t know anything about magic at all yet! How can they expect great things from me already? I’m famous and I can’t even remember what I’m famous for! I don’t know what happened when Vol-, sorry - I mean, the night my parents died.”

Hagrid leaned across the table. Behind the wild beard and eyebrows, he wore a very kind smile.

“Don’t you worry, Imogen. You’re one of the keenest kids I’ve met so far, and everyone learns fast enough. Everyone starts at the beginning at Hogwarts, you’ll be just fine. Just be yourself. I know it’s hard. You’ve been singled out, and that’s always hard. But you’ll have a great time at Hogwarts - I did - still do, as a matter of fact. And after that… just think what Quirrell said. You’ve got your whole life as a witch ahead of you.”

Imogen nodded. “I meant what I said,” she added, determination forming over her features. “I want to prove myself - to myself as much as to anyone else. Those extra books on magic will be a start. There’s just so much exciting knowledge out there that I can learn… so many future options to choose from.”

“Well, luckily you’ve got a few years to figure it out,” Hagrid chuckled. “Hey, you know what you could do? Do you remember the deputy headmistress, Professor McGonagall, from your acceptance letter?”

Imogen nodded curiously.

“Write to her this summer, while you’re reading and studying! She’s usually a rather strict sort, but I think she’d like you. She loves tutoring keen young witches who ask for her help. 

“You could ask her how to practice spells and potions, or about what you’re reading, or about what you should study and what you should memorize. She’d be great for that! Ask her for study and training tips. She’s much less of a stickler for rules or a stickler for needless knowledge than one might expect, and she’s brilliant - especially with magic, but she was a Halfblood, so she could probably answer just about any question you had. She could teach you how to practice magic, and how to memorize important sections of readings, without you having to memorize the whole thing as though you’d just swallowed the textbook.”

“... I’ll do that,” said Imogen thoughtfully. “Thanks, Hagrid.”

Hagrid helped Imogen onto the train that would take her back to the Dursleys, then handed her an envelope.

“Your ticket for Hogwarts,” he said. “First of September - King’s Cross - it’s all on your ticket. Any problems with the Dursleys, send me a letter with your owl, she knows how to find just about anyone… See you soon, Imogen.”

The train pulled out of the station. Imogen wanted to watch Hagrid until he was out of sight; she rose in her seat and pressed her nose against the window, but she blinked and Hagrid had gone.


	5. Imogen Five

_Imogen Five_

Imogen’s last month with the Dursleys in some ways wasn’t fun. Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon didn’t shut Imogen in her cupboard, force her to do anything, or shout at her - in fact, they didn’t speak to her at all. Half terrified, half furious, they acted as though any chair with Imogen in it were empty. Although this was an improvement in many ways, it did become a bit depressing after a while.

Imogen kept to her room, with her new owl for company. She had decided to call her owl Hedwig, a name she had found in A History of Magic. Her school books were very interesting. She lay on her bed reading late into the night, Hedwig swooping in and out of the open window as she pleased. It was lucky that Aunt Petunia didn’t come in to vacuum anymore, because Hedwig kept bringing back dead mice. Every night before she went to sleep, Imogen ticked off another day on the piece of paper she had pinned to the wall, counting down to September the first.

Dudley, unlike his parents, was actually friendly to Imogen, as well as very curious about her new world. He sat on the floor of her bedroom, wide-eyed, as she told him riveting stories and pieces of information from what she had already learned of the wizarding world. She waved her hands theatrically from her bed, face excited and eyes big.

Dudley, a video game fanatic, was entranced. “You’re like a fantasy game character now!” he said excitedly. “You have a specialized weapon and everything!”

Imogen blushed, pleased.

Imogen also tried to pay Dudley back for all his years of kindness with her new secret wellspring of Muggle money. They visited countless shops as she bought him even more new things than he already had. She had promised to buy Dudley whatever he wanted - as long as he never told his parents about her secret fortune. “I don’t think Muggles could take away the Potter accounts, but just in case,” she warned him.

“My lips are sealed,” he assured her.

“You never to worry about money again,” said Imogen, smiling. “That’s my thanks for all you did for me as a kid. I’ll send you money every month when we’re both adults, and if you ever have any trouble, you just let me know.”

She also wrote to Professor McGonagall through Hedwig, as Hagrid had suggested. She gave Hedwig the first letter, told Hedwig uncertainly to give it to Professor Minerva McGonagall at Hogwarts, and Hedwig had swooped away. A bit to Imogen’s surprise, in under two days Professor McGonagall had responded back and the letter did reach her back through Hedwig.

_Yes, I would be willing to tutor you. I am always willing to help new students, most especially smart young witches from a Muggle background, with anything they wish to learn. I have attached some study suggestions I have written. Write back to me this summer with any questions you have._

_Professor M. McGonagall_

Imogen’s eyes widened. Attached to the letter were at least ten full sheets of parchment paper, chock-filled with writing.

Imogen read them all and took each and every suggestion. She learned the memorization techniques Professor McGonagall had outlined, learned to look out for and memorize the important sections of each school book that Professor McGonagall had highlighted for her, and she began practicing potions and spells. She learned the fire spell first, so that she could light a magically hovering fire underneath her cauldron, the window open, and practice potions in her bedroom. After that she practiced both spells and potions at least well into the first year level, with Professor McGonagall’s help and tips. She got an early, steady foundation and head start.

She didn’t know how far ahead people from wizarding families would be, so she hoped that would be enough.

She also read through and memorized the important sections from her extra books on magical craft, magical theory, potions, and magical plants and creatures. She used that last month to cram her head full of as much training and knowledge on the art of magic itself as was possible to have.

Her history school book, A History of Magic, was the only thing that taught her anything about the culture and practices of the actual world she’d be entering - she did read entirely through and memorize all the important sections of that book as well. She got a thorough grounding on the basic outline of the wizarding world and its history, but that was about it. She couldn’t have memorized everything, she’d needed a specific point of focus, so she just hoped she could trust that she would learn enough about the wizarding world over her time inside it.

Quite frankly, she’d been more interested in the art of magical theory than in the intricacies of wizarding culture anyway.

By the end of the summer, could she regurgitate whole pages word for word? No. But she’d memorized all the vocabulary, buzzwords, and important pieces of information, as well as being well on her way to going above and beyond in actual magical practice. She felt that was more important. It was good to keep ahead, she had learned from Professor McGonagall, whose lessons would stick with her on her road to becoming an accomplished witch. She finally felt like she was learning skills and on her way to graduation and one of those fanciful careers, so it was all quite exciting. Imogen began taking her wand around with her in her pocket everywhere she went - she needed it even for potions, so she made sure to keep it handy.

Professor McGonagall’s replies had gotten longer and warmer by the end of the summer. She said that Imogen asked bright questions and Imogen felt that Professor McGonagall had become rather fond of her.

On the last day of August she thought she’d better speak to her aunt and uncle about getting to King’s Cross station the next day, so she went down into the living room where they were watching a quiz show on television. She cleared her throat to let them know she was there. Only Dudley looked directly at her.

“Er - Uncle Vernon?”

Uncle Vernon grunted to show he was listening.

“Er - I need to be at King’s Cross Station tomorrow to - to go to Hogwarts.”

Uncle Vernon grunted again.

“Would it be all right if you gave me a lift?”

Grunt. Imogen supposed that meant yes.

“Thank you.”

She was about to go back upstairs when Uncle Vernon actually spoke.

“Funny way to get to a witch’s school, the train. Magic carpets all got punctures, have they?”

Imogen didn’t say anything.

“Where is this school, anyway?”

“I don’t know,” said Imogen, realizing this for the first time. She pulled the ticket Hagrid had given her out of her pocket.

“I just take the train from platform nine and three-quarters at eleven o’clock,” she read.

Her aunt and uncle stared.

“Platform what?”

“Nine and three-quarters.”

“Don’t talk rubbish,” said Uncle Vernon. “There is no platform nine and three-quarters.”

“It’s on my ticket.”

“Barking,” said Uncle Vernon, “howling mad, the lot of them. You’ll see. You just wait. All right, we’ll take you to King’s Cross. We’re going up to London tomorrow anyway, or I wouldn’t bother.”

“Why are you going to London?” Imogen asked, trying to keep things friendly.

“I’m going to the hospital,” growled Uncle Vernon. “I’m having that ruddy tail removed.”

-

Imogen woke at five o’clock the next morning and was too excited and nervous to go back to sleep. She got up and pulled on her clothes because she didn’t want to walk into the station in her witch’s robes - she’d change into her uniform on the train. She checked her Hogwarts list yet again to make sure she had everything she needed, saw that Hedwig was shut safely in her cage, and then paced her bedroom, waiting for the Dursleys to get up. Two hours later, Imogen’s huge, heavy trunk had been loaded into the Dursleys’ car, Dudley had been seated next to Imogen, and they had set off.

They reached King’s Cross at half past ten. Uncle Vernon dumped Imogen’s trunk onto a cart and wheeled it into the station for her. Imogen thought this was strangely kind until Uncle Vernon stopped dead, facing the platforms with a nasty grin on his face.

“Well, there you are, girl. Platform nine - platform ten. Your platform should be somewhere in the middle, but they don’t seem to have built it yet, do they?”

He was quite right, of course. There was a big plastic number nine over one platform and a big plastic number ten over the one next to it, and in the middle, nothing at all.

“Have a good term,” said Uncle Vernon with an even nastier smile. He left without another word. Imogen turned and saw the Dursleys’ car drive away. Her aunt and uncle were laughing, her cousin with his worried face pressed against the back window. Imogen’s mouth went rather dry. What on earth was she going to do? She was starting to attract a lot of funny looks, because of Hedwig. She’d have to ask someone.

She stopped a passing guard, but didn’t dare mention platform nine and three-quarters. The guard had never heard of Hogwarts and when Imogen couldn’t even tell him what part of the country it was in, he started to get annoyed, as though Imogen was being stupid on purpose. Getting desperate, Imogen asked for the train at eleven o’clock, but the guard said there wasn’t one. In the end the guard strode away, muttering about time wasters. Imogen was now trying hard not to panic. According to the large clock over the arrivals board, she had ten minutes left to get on the train to Hogwarts and she had no idea how to do it; she was stranded in the middle of a station with a trunk she could hardly lift, a pocket full of witch’s gold, a magic wand, and a large owl.

Hagrid must have forgotten to tell her something you had to do, like tapping the third brick on the left to get into Diagon Alley. She wondered if she should get out her wand and start tapping the ticket inspector’s stand between platforms nine and ten. 

At that moment, a group of people passed just behind her and she caught a few words of what they were saying.

“- packed with Muggles, of course -”

Imogen swung round. The speaker was a plump woman who was talking to four boys, all with flaming red hair. Each of them was pushing a trunk like Imogen’s in front of him - and they had an owl.

Heart hammering, Imogen pushed her cart after them. They stopped and so did she, just near enough to hear what they were saying.

“Now, what’s the platform number?” said the boys’ mother.

“Nine and three quarters!” piped a small girl, also red-headed, who was holding her hand, “Mum, can’t I go…”

“You’re not old enough, Ginny, now be quiet. All right, Percy, you go first.”

What looked like the oldest boy marched toward platforms nine and ten. Imogen watched, careful not to blink in case she missed it - but just as the boy reached the dividing barrier between the two platforms, a large crowd of tourists came swarming in front of him and by the time the last backpack had cleared away, the boy had vanished.

“Fred, you next,” said the plump woman.

“I’m not Fred, I’m George,” said the boy. “Honestly, woman, you call yourself our mother? Can’t you tell I’m George?”

“Sorry, George, dear.”

“Only joking, I am Fred,” said the boy, and off he went. His twin called after him to hurry up, and he must have done so, because a second later, he had gone - but how had he done it?

Now the third brother was walking briskly toward the barrier - he was almost there - and then, quite suddenly, he wasn’t anywhere.

There was nothing else for it.

“Excuse me,” Imogen said to the plump woman.

“Hello, dear,” she said. “First time at Hogwarts? Ron’s new, too.”

She pointed at the last and youngest of her sons. He was tall, thin, and gangling, with freckles, big hands and feet, and a long nose.

“Yes,” said Imogen. “The thing is - the thing is, I don’t know how to -”

“How to get onto the platform?” she said kindly, and Imogen nodded.

“Not to worry,” she said. “All you have to do is walk straight at the barrier between platforms nine and ten. Don’t stop and don’t be scared you’ll crash into it, that’s very important. Best do it at a bit of a run if you’re nervous. Go on, go now before Ron.”

“Er - okay,” said Imogen.

She pushed her trolley around and stared at the barrier. It looked very solid.

She started to walk toward it. People jostled her on their way to platforms nine and ten. Imogen walked more quickly. She was going to smash right into that barrier and then she’d be in trouble - leaning forward on her cart, she broke into a heavy run - the barrier was coming nearer and nearer - she wouldn’t be able to stop - the cart was out of control - she was a foot away - she closed her eyes ready for the crash -

It didn’t come… she kept on running… she opened her eyes.

A scarlet steam engine was waiting next to a platform packed with people. A sign overhead said Hogwarts Express, eleven o’clock. Imogen looked behind her and saw a wrought iron archway where the barrier had been, with the words Platform Nine and Three-Quarters on it. She had done it.

Smoke from the engine drifted over the heads of the chattering crowd, while cats of every color wound here and there between their legs. Owls hooted to one another in a disgruntled sort of way over the babble and the scraping of heavy trunks.

The first few carriages were already packed with students, some hanging out of the window to talk to their families, some fighting over seats. First years could even be seen through the windows, racing each other excitedly down the train corridor. Imogen pushed her cart off down the platform in search of an empty seat. She passed a round-faced boy who was saying, “Gran, I’ve lost my toad again.”

“Oh, Neville,” she heard the old woman sigh.

A boy with dreadlocks was surrounded by a small crowd.

“Give us a look, Lee, go on.”

The boy lifted lid of a box in his arms, and the people around him shrieked and yelled as something inside poked out a long, hairy leg.

Imogen pressed on through the crowd until she found an empty compartment near the end of the train.

And this is where we pause. Because this moment is where Imogen Potter - ebony wand, ripped leggings and long coats with big black buttons, smooth top-knots and long straightened sleek hair, cat-eye glasses, of music, art, dried flowers, handwritten cursive notes, and delicate intricate blankets, sarcastic but also surprisingly friendly - this moment is where Imogen Potter truly diverges from her three fellows completely.


	6. Imogen Six

_Imogen Six_

Imogen pressed on through the crowd until she found a compartment near the end of the train. She put Hedwig inside first and then started to shove and heave her trunk toward the train door. She tried to lift it up the steps but could hardly raise one end and twice dropped it painfully on her foot.

“Your poor thing, would you like some help?” A small wizarding family was standing there, concerned. The parents, a kindly but mousy motherly little woman with a bun of blonde hair and a tall, salt and pepper haired man, were wearing robes. They were accompanied by a slim, pretty blonde girl around Imogen’s age and a curious-looking little redheaded girl with a natural fiery, defiant expression.

Imogen laughed in embarrassment. “Oh, no, it’s alright,” she said, amused. “I’ve got it.” She took out her black ebony wand, waved it, and the trunk levitated itself neatly into a little corner of the compartment.

Both of the parents were impressed. “Oh, my!” said the mother.

“Yes, indeed, that’s quite impressive,” said the father frankly. He turned to the girl about Imogen’s age. “Daphne, you should sit with her. You might learn a lot.”

“Oh, I’m sure she’d have plenty of things to teach me, too,” said Imogen, smiling uneasily, but just then she’d brushed her hair out of her eyes.

“What’s that?” said the smaller girl suddenly, pointing at Imogen’s lightning scar.

“Oh - well -” Imogen stuttered out. The family was suddenly staring at her avidly.

“That would explain a great deal about why you’re alone, and why Daphne would have a lot to teach you,” said the mother, who was sharper than she’d seemed at first glance. “You wouldn’t happen to be her, would you?”

“Who?”

“Imogen Potter!” said the small, fiery redhead, sounding very impressed.

“Oh, her,” said Imogen. “I mean, yes, I am.”

For some reason the family smiled. “We’re the Greengrasses,” said the mother, taking Imogen’s hand and shaking it. The father reached out to do the same. “All wizarding family. These are our daughters. Daphne is a first year like you; Astoria is two years behind her.”

“I’ve heard your story. You’re very impressive,” said Astoria loudly. “It very much figures you’re already clever enough to know magic.”

“Oh… thank you,” said Imogen, smiling, bewildered and not quite sure what to say.

“Now, now, Astoria. On her first day, I’m sure she doesn’t want to be treated any differently from the rest,” Mrs Greengrass scolded gently. “No treating her like a circus show and no asking her rude questions.”

“Can I sit with you?” said Daphne curiously. “I mean, we mentioned it before, but… if you’d rather not…” she added slowly.

“Oh, no, go ahead! It would be wonderful having someone to sit with!” said Imogen quickly. 

So she clambered onto the train and Daphne Greengrass clambered on with her. But Daphne leaned out of the window to talk to her family.

“If you need anything, just let us know,” said Mr Greengrass simply to Imogen. He seemed a man of few words and much matter of factness.

“Yes… some all wizarding families but can be a bit snobbish, but though we are rather well to do, we try to stay out of that sort of thing,” said Mrs Greengrass kindly, patting Imogen’s hand.

“I’ll warn you, we’re not normal,” said Mr Greengrass honestly. “There are normal families. Just none currently in this compartment.”

“Isn’t that the truth,” said Astoria baldly.

“Oh!” Mrs Greengrass gave a gentle swat at her husband’s arm.

“Alright… thank you,” said Imogen slowly, surprised but not in an unpleasant way.

“Okay. That’s enough scaring away the first real person I’ve met,” said Daphne to her family, smiling wryly. She leaned out the window to kiss her parents goodbye. “I’ll learn lots,” she told them. “I promise.”

“Oh…” Mrs Greengrass’s eyes began to get rather damp; she hurried away before anyone could see her cry.

“You know your mother,” said Mr Greengrass, smiling quietly. “Take it from me that we both love you.” He winked once.

Daphne smiled back. “Yes, Father,” she said.

“In two years, I’ll be coming after you,” said Astoria loudly, pointing. “So you’d better get good, or else I’ll beat you!”

“Oh, yeah?” said Daphne, grinning at the competition. “Well, we’ll just see about that!”

A whistle sounded.

“Let’s get all your things!” said Mr Greengrass quickly, hefting Daphne’s trunk and a fluffy white Persian cat in a cat carrying case into the compartment. “Everyone have everything?”

For some reason, he turned to Imogen too.

Imogen nodded, curious. “Yes, that’s it!” said Daphne, giving one last look-around. Mrs Greengrass hurried back and suddenly threw her arms hard around her surprised daughter. 

“Be good,” Imogen heard her whisper in Daphne’s ear. Imogen looked awkwardly away from the touching moment, feeling somehow like an intruder. Then Mrs Greengrass pulled away.

The train began to move. Sitting next to Daphne, who was also looking out the window, Imogen saw the Greengrasses waving. The train gathered further speed. The platform full of waving people fell behind them.

Imogen watched the Greengrasses disappear as the train rounded the corner. Houses flashed past the window. Imogen felt a great leap of excitement. She didn’t know what she was going to - but it had to be better than what she was leaving behind.

“So… Imogen Potter.” Imogen looked around to find Daphne watching her from the seat across the compartment with keen interest.

Imogen smirked. “Yes?” she asked, raising a challenging eyebrow.

Daphne grinned and took the challenge. “This is rude, but I’ll ask anyway. Do you remember him? You-Know-Who?”

“... I remember a jet of green light and a pain in my forehead,” said Imogen with solemn honesty. “And I remember this really cruel laugh. Nothing else.”

“He was laughing as he killed them.” Reserved distaste had come over Daphne’s face. “That’s awful,” she said sympathetically. “Not to mention distinctly unclassy.”

Imogen relaxed. “That’s what I’d call it,” she said dryly. “Unclassy.”

A moment of defensiveness came over Daphne’s face - and then she realized Imogen was kidding. They shared a chuckle.

“My family is a really old wizarding family, not openly on the Light side so we’re supposed to be big You-Know-Who supporters?” Daphne looked skeptical. “Especially as we’re Slytherins. But that’s a stereotype. We’re not actually like that at all.

“We agree with most Light views. We’re just survivors. We prefer not to get involved in things that could kill and incriminate our family.

“So we’re outcasts both ways: the Dark Side doesn’t like us, but neither does the Light Side.” Daphne shrugged. “We keep to ourselves, so we don’t really mind.”

“You seem nice. To go against a family for not being extreme politically is stupid,” Imogen decided, sympathetic.

“It is what it is,” said Daphne simply, sounding rather like her father for a moment.

“So… I heard from Hagrid, the person who took me to Diagon Alley, that all the Dark wizards and witches are supposed to come from Slytherin…” said Imogen slowly. She was curious to see what Daphne had to say in response.

Daphne scoffed. “That’s ridiculous. We have both Light and Dark, and so do all the other houses - they just don’t like admitting it. But we’re a house that is loyal to our own, to our friends, and we’re a house that prizes greatness, achievement, ability, ambition. We care about Slytherin and are not afraid to be a bit utilitarian to propel both our friends and ourselves into good things. We also have a reputation for being a bit edgy and walking on the wild side.

“All this means that other houses are a bit afraid of us. That’s where a lot of the rumor comes from. But being intimidating can be kind of fun. It means no one crosses us and threatens us for one thing, which is a big deal in a whole training school crammed full of growing witches and wizards. And we make plenty of friends in-house. Like I said, if you want Light friends… we have those, too. Mostly, we try to keep to ourselves.

“And we’re better than the other houses. Hufflepuffs are losers, Ravenclaws are swots obsessed with grades. Gryffindor, our arch-rival, tries to be as powerful as us but just ends up coming across as the popular jock who doesn’t quite measure up in craftiness, cleverness, and wizarding power.

“Us, meanwhile, we focus on cleverness, ambition, and what very dramatic Slytherins call the seeds of greatness. We’re also deathly loyal to our friends and loved ones, even if we try to avoid obvious harm most of the rest of the time. And we’re curious and high-achieving - two more things we never get credit for.

“Slytherin is a fine house. That’s my argument and I’ll defend it to the death!” Daphne smiled.

Imogen slowly smiled back. “You’re right, it seems like a fine house,” she admitted, “especially if your family’s in it. I mean, they seem nice, right?”

Perhaps Slytherin was like the Greengrasses - tough, forcing itself to pretend it didn’t care, and frequently misunderstood.

“What about your family?” said Daphne politely. “You went to live with Muggles, right? No problems for me there, by the way.”

Imogen smiled reluctantly. “Well, my aunt and uncle are horrible,” she admitted. “They’re terrible to me. But my cousin and all my childhood friends growing up were very nice. Still… I wish I’d grown up with a wizarding family like you. My aunt and uncle… they never gave me any money, they hid the truth of who I was from me.”

“That’s a crime!” said Daphne heatedly.

“Yeah, well…” Imogen shrugged. “That’s why I have an owl,” she said. “Don’t get me wrong, I love Hedwig, but part of the reason I don’t have a cat is that my family will never get a mail owl. So I need one.”

“Oh. This is Cliodna. She’s named after an ancient Druidess,” said Daphne, smiling, unlocking the carrying case so fluffy white Cliodna could climb into her lap. “Good job naming your owl after an ancient saint burned at the stake for witchcraft!” She grinned, her nose wrinkling. “That’s badass!”

Imogen let out a surprised laugh. “Thanks,” she said, laughter still in her voice.

“So… your aunt and uncle really never told you anything?” said Daphne in a low, morbidly curious voice.

“No. Until Hagrid told me I didn’t know anything about being a witch or about my parents or Voldemort -”

Daphne gasped.

“What?” said Imogen.

“Nothing, it’s just… back in the war, if you said You-Know-Who’s name, you could have been killed on the spot,” said Daphne in a low, shocked, impressed voice. “That’s why no one’s supposed to do it, even today.”

“I’m not trying to be brave or anything, saying the name,” said Imogen. “I just never knew you shouldn’t. See what I mean? I’ve got loads to learn. I bet, in spite of all my study,” she added, voicing for the first time something that had been worrying her a lot lately, “I bet I’m the worst in the class.”

“Nonsense. Plenty of Muggleborns grow up to become just fine witches and wizards,” said Daphne, nonplussed. Then she added curiously: “... How much extra study have you done?”

So Imogen told her. Daphne’s eyes slowly got very round in shock.

“Wow!” she said, impressed. “No one does that much study of magic itself before Hogwarts! Especially of things like key concepts and practical, creative applications. Keep that up and you’ll be the best in the class, not the worst. You are definitely one of those keen, brainy, career-type girls!”

While they had been talking, the train had carried them out of London. Now they were speeding past fields full of cows and sheep. They were quiet for a time, watching the fields and lanes flick past.

Around half past twelve there was a great clattering outside in the corridor and a smiling, dimpled woman slid back their door and said, “Anything off the cart, dears?”

“Oh, you should see some of the sweets they have here,” said Daphne, smiling, and she and Imogen leapt to their feet and went eagerly out into the corridor to squat before the cart, each carrying jangling coins.

The woman had so many sweets Imogen had never seen before, nowhere close to the kind Dudley used to buy for her when they were children. Imogen bought a package of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans, a pack of Drooble’s Best Blowing Gum, a Chocolate Frog, a Pumpkin Pasty, a Cauldron Cake, and a Licorice Wand. She and Daphne both paid a big pile of Sickles and Knuts for their goodies. They went back into the compartment and each tipped their loot onto an empty seat.

They sat down and each began eating their way through their own set of pasties, cakes, and candies, chatting as they went.

“What are these?” Imogen asked Daphne, holding up a pack of Chocolate Frogs. “They’re not really frogs, are they?” She was starting to feel that nothing would surprise her.

“No,” said Daphne. “But each pack does have a famous witch or wizard card - you know, for the boys to collect, mostly.”

Imogen unwrapped her Chocolate Frog and picked up the card. It showed a moving, smiling picture of a man’s face. He wore half-moon glasses, had a long, crooked nose, and flowing silver hair, beard, and mustache. Underneath the picture was the name Albus Dumbledore.

“So this is Dumbledore!” said Imogen.

“Oh, yes,” said Daphne, disinterested. “My family have never thought he’s a bad sort, but be careful, because he doesn’t tend to like Slytherins.”

Imogen turned over her card and read:

_Albus Dumbledore_

_Currently Headmaster of Hogwarts_

_Considered by many the greatest wizard of modern times, Dumbledore is particularly famous for his defeat of the Dark wizard Grindelwald in 1945, for the discovery of the twelve uses of dragon’s blood, and his work on alchemy with his partner, Nicolas Flamel. Professor Dumbledore enjoys chamber music and tenpin bowling._

“I’m keeping this,” Imogen decided proudly, “to commemorate my very first Chocolate Frog being unwrapped.”

Daphne smiled, seeming fondly amused. “Suit yourself,” she said.

Imogen tucked the Chocolate Frog card into the bottom of her trunk and forgot about it.

Next she went to open a bag of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans.

“Be careful,” warned Daphne. “When they say every flavor, they mean every flavor - there’s chocolate, peppermint, and marmalade, just for example, but then there’s also spinach and liver and tripe. Neither Astoria nor my father will touch them. Astoria once got toe lint flavor and my Dad once got hairball flavor.”

Still, Daphne and Imogen had a good time eating the Every Flavor Beans. Imogen got toast, coconut, baked bean, strawberry, curry, grass, coffee, sardine, and was even brave enough to nibble the end of a funny grey one Daphne wouldn’t even touch, which turned out to be pepper. Daphne laughed as Imogen made a face, Imogen smiling wryly in amusement.

The countryside now flying past the window was becoming wilder. The neat fields had gone. Now there were woods, twisting rivers, and dark green hills.

There was a knock on the door of their compartment and the round-faced boy Imogen had passed on platform nine and three-quarters came in. He looked tearful.

“Sorry,” he said, “but have you seen a toad at all?”

When they shook their heads, he wailed, “I’ve lost him! He keeps getting away from me!”

“Don’t worry,” said Imogen kindly. “You’ll find him. Everything will be all right.”

The boy sniffled. “Yes,” he said miserably, “I suppose so. Well, if you see him…” 

He left.

“Poor Neville Longbottom,” Daphne sighed.

“Is that his name?” said Imogen curiously. “The sniffly kid?”

“Yes. He’s from an old Light Side all-wizard family, but for a long time everyone thought he might not have any magic at all. He’s always been like that - very sniffly, clumsy, and slow. I don’t know how the poor thing’s going to last at Hogwarts, where everyone has to fend for themselves,” said Daphne primly.

Just then, the compartment door slid open again. A thin boy with glasses and curly brown hair stood there, his expression reserved but his stance casually confident. His trunk was beside him.

“Excuse me, is anyone sitting with you?” he asked.

“... No,” Daphne admitted, but she sounded for some reason reluctant. The boy put his trunk in the compartment and sat down. “Imogen, this is Theodore Nott,” she said with some amount of distaste. “Nott, this is your lucky day, because that’s Imogen Potter.”

“Theo,” said the boy, reaching out to shake her hand, and then he said still shaking her hand with the same amount of intentness, “you should know, my mother is dead and my father is very Dark, but I hate my father so I find you spectacular.”

Imogen smiled despite herself. “That is so honest I don’t know what to say,” she admitted.

“My father’s an idiot,” Theo sniffed, sitting back. “He’s convinced you’re the next Dark Lady. Can’t see that you might aspire to something morally higher than that. He doesn’t have much of a spine, my father, but the only thing you can say about him is that he sticks to his Dark principles.”

Imogen yet again had no idea what to say.

“What are you doing here, Nott?” said Daphne, still with distaste.

“I keep telling you to call me Theo. Nott is my father,” said Theo, sounding irritated. They were clearly both from all-wizarding families; they had met before and hadn’t exactly grown up liking each other. “I needed a place to stay after spying on all the other first years in our class. Ask me for any piece of gossip, I can tell you all you want to know,” he said matter of factly.

“That’s totally immoral,” said Imogen warmly, amused, “but a useful skill.”

“I’m a strategist.” Theo shrugged, sounding bored. “I play wizard’s chess, too.”

“That doesn’t make you a good person,” Daphne snapped.

“Being a good person,” Theo declared, “is highly overrated. So is being an evil person. Being a smart person? That’s better.” He pointed at them.

“Well I don’t want to hear private things about my classmates,” said Daphne, cold and snobbish now around Theodore Nott.

“Then let’s trade gossip about something everyone does know about,” said Theo, rolling his eyes. “Did you two hear about Gringotts? I know Daphne probably did, but I heard Imogen went to live with Muggles.” Interestingly, he never asked about that, never commented one way or the other. “So she might not know?

“It’s been all over the Daily Prophet. Someone tried to rob a high security vault,” he told Imogen seriously.

Imogen stared.

“Really? What happened to them?”

“Nothing, that’s why it’s such big news,” said Theo. “They haven’t been caught.”

“But I know my parents said it must have been a powerful Dark wizard to get round Gringotts,” said Daphne intently. “Everyone’s wondering if You-Know-Who’s behind it.”

“Everyone’s always wondering if You-Know-Who’s behind it,” Theo offered scathingly, with impressive poise. “But he never actually is.”

Imogen turned this news over in her mind. She was starting to get a prickle of fear every time You-Know-Who was mentioned. She supposed this was all part of entering the magical world, but it had been a lot more comfortable saying “Voldemort” without worrying.

“So,” she asked Theo, “are you hoping for Slytherin as well?”

“It’s probably where I’ll end up,” said Theo neutrally, shrugging. “I’m like a chameleon, I can blend in anywhere. But I fit the profile and all my family have been Slytherins.”

Just then, the compartment door slid open again, but it wasn’t Neville the toadless boy or even the cart lady this time.

Three boys entered, and Imogen recognized the middle one at once: it was the pale boy from Madam Malkin’s robe shop. Her eyes narrowed. The boy was looking at Imogen with a lot more interest than he’d shown back in Diagon Alley.

“Is it true?” he asked. “People overheard you talking on the platform. They’re saying all up and down the train that Imogen Potter’s in this compartment. I already know Nott and Greengrass, so it’s you, is it?”

“Yes,” said Imogen. She was looking at the other boys. Both of them were thickset and looked extremely mean. Standing on either side the pale boy, they looked like bodyguards. 

“Oh, this is Crabbe and this is Goyle,” said the pale boy carelessly, noticing where Imogen was looking. “And my name’s Malfoy. Draco Malfoy.

“Do you mind if I sit down?”

“... I suppose not,” said Imogen stiffly. Malfoy sprawled himself with what seemed purposefully elegant laziness in a seat of the compartment.

“Nott,” he said, smirking, “how are you?”

“I’m fine. You, Malfoy? Still believing what your father feeds you? Dear Draco’s from a family like mine,” said Theo fearlessly, smiling humorlessly, “only he listens to his father.”

Malfoy sat up heatedly. “Just because you hate your father, Nott, don’t pin that on me,” he said heatedly. “I can see what kind of company you choose to keep. A Greengrass? Really?”

“Sod off, Malfoy,” Daphne snapped.

“Or you’ll do what?” Malfoy sneered. Daphne flushed and glared but fell silent. 

Malfoy turned to Imogen. “You’ll soon find out some wizarding families are better than others, Potter. Nott’s alright, I suppose,” he said slowly, “but overall, you really don’t want to go making friends with the wrong sort. I can help you there.”

He held out his hand to shake Imogen’s, but Imogen didn’t take it.

She smirked. “I think I can tell who the wrong sort are for myself, thanks,” she said softly, her narrowed eyes dangerously frigid but somehow mocking.

Draco Malfoy didn’t go red, but he lowered his hand and a pink tinge did appear in his pale cheeks.

“I’d be careful if I were you, Potter,” he snapped. “Unless you’re a bit politer you’ll go the same way as your parents. They didn’t know what was good for them, either. You hang around with riffraff like the Greengrasses and that Hagrid, and it’ll rub off on y -”

But at that moment Draco Malfoy broke off, his eyes widening in surprise. Imogen’s hand with her wand hidden up her sleeve had moved subtly sideways, and Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle had been thrown with a slam against one compartment wall. A second later, they were thrown the other way with a second slam, shouting all the while.

Malfoy looked at Imogen’s hand in a moment of genuine fear. “Let’s go,” he muttered to his cronies, and all three of them scrambled out of the compartment, letting the compartment door slide shut behind them.

“It really is too bad he’ll probably be a Slytherin,” said Imogen distantly and clinically, staring after Malfoy.

Daphne snickered. “That was awesome,” she admitted with reluctant admiration.

“You should know from the beginning,” Theo told Imogen, more serious, “his family accepts mine because of two big connections: we’re both wealthy, and we both have fathers who secretly worked for You-Know-Who but got off by saying they’d been bewitched. The difference is that he admires his father - and I don’t exactly aspire to become mine,” he said in a tone of deep, reserved disgust. “As a result, my childhood was… rather unpleasant.”

Daphne was looking at Theo in concern she’d never have admitted to, Imogen felt.

“Anyway.” Daphne purposefully and cheerfully tried to move past the encounter, standing. “Let’s put our robes on, yeah? We must be nearly there.”

They slipped their black Hogwarts robes on over their clothes. Imogen peered out of the window. It was getting dark. She could see mountains and forests under a deep purple sky. The train did seem to be slowing down.

A voice echoed through the train: “We will be reaching Hogwarts in five minutes’ time. Please leave your luggage on the train, it will be taken to the school separately.”

Imogen’s stomach lurched with nerves. Daphne swallowed, looking anxious, and even the normally fearless Theo seemed a bit sick. They joined the crowd thronging the corridor.

The train slowed right down and finally stopped. People pushed their way toward the door and out onto a tiny, dark platform. Imogen shivered in the cold night air. Then a lamp came bobbing over the heads of the students, and Imogen heard a familiar voice in a thick West Country accent: “First years! First years over here! All right there, Imogen?”

Hagrid’s big hairy face beamed over the sea of heads.

“Come on, follow me - any more first years? Mind your step, now! First years follow me!”

Slipping and stumbling, they followed Hagrid down what seemed to be a steep, narrow path. It was so dark on either side of them that Imogen thought there must be thick trees there. Nobody spoke much. Neville, the boy who kept losing his toad, sniffed once or twice.

“You’ll get your first sight of Hogwarts in a sec,” Hagrid called over his shoulder, “just round this bend here.”

There was a loud “Oooooh!”

The narrow path had opened suddenly onto the edge of a great black lake. Perched atop a high mountain on the other side, its windows sparkling in the starry sky, was a vast castle with many turrets and towers.

“No more than four to a boat!” Hagrid called, pointing to a fleet of little boats sitting in the water by the shore. Theo, Daphne, and Imogen were followed into their boat by a thin, reserved girl with long sheets of brown hair hiding her face.

“Everyone in?” shouted Hagrid, who had a boat to himself. “Right then - FORWARD!”

And the fleet of little boats moved off all at once, gliding across the lake, which was as smooth as glass. Everyone was silent, staring up at the great castle overhead. It towered over them as they sailed nearer and nearer to the cliff on which it stood.

“Heads down!” yelled Hagrid as the first boats reached the cliff; they all bent their heads and the little boats carried them through a curtain of ivy that hid a wide opening in the cliff face. They were carried along a dark tunnel, which seemed to be taking them right underneath the castle, until they reached a kind of underground harbor, where they clambered out onto rocks and pebbles.

“Oy, you there! Is this your toad?” said Hagrid, who was checking the boats as people climbed out of them.

“Trevor!” cried Neville blissfully, holding out his hands. Then they clambered up a passageway in the rock after Hagrid’s lamp, coming out at last onto smooth, damp grass right in the shadow of the castle.

They walked up a flight of stone steps and crowded around the huge, oak front door.

“Everyone here? You there, still got your toad?”

Hagrid raised a gigantic fist and knocked three times on the castle door.


End file.
